


Nightingale (And Not the Lark)

by RedOrchid



Series: CSI-verse [2]
Category: Bandom
Genre: A Lot of Death, Baby!Patrick Goes After What He Wants, Crime Scenes, Fucked Up Relationship, Kinky, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, So Very Kinky, Team Dynamics, Unsafe BDSM, at all, but yes warnings, completely devoted in a twisted way, explicit "no" ignored between main characters, kind of like the way Pete writes about his relationships really, pete and patrick don't however, please read them, see fucked up relationship tag, seriously so fucked up, so just be aware of that yeah?, theirs is not a healthy normal love, they don't care, which is then laughed away, yes i realise this is deeply problematic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedOrchid/pseuds/RedOrchid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CSI AU. Ryan Ross's CSI team joins up with Detective Pete Wentz to investigate a string of unusual murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> General warnings for everything CSI: dead bodies, crime, creative serial killers, years of UST, complete disregard for the actual workings of the American legal system and/or laws of physics and probability. Some references to murder, torture, incest, prostitution and rape in cases being investigated, but nothing graphic or actually shown in-story. No creepy crawlers either. ~~Gil Grissom~~ Ryan Ross does not get to hatch larvae from a dead pig.)
> 
> **Bonus tracks/Enhanced content:**
> 
> **Fanart:**  
> [Story banner](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/68938.html) by [](http://ohfreckle.livejournal.com/profile)[**ohfreckle**](http://ohfreckle.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  **Fanmixes:**  
> [Burn So Pretty](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/69159.html) by [](http://alchemywow.livejournal.com/profile)[**alchemywow**](http://alchemywow.livejournal.com/)  
> [Fanmix](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/69470.html) by [](http://xbeax.livejournal.com/profile)[**xbeax**](http://xbeax.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  **Fanvid:**  
> [If You're Not the One](http://redorchids.livejournal.com/58808.html) by me

_DAY 1_

The call comes at 10:34 am, roughly three hours after Jon finally got to crawl into bed after a night spent sifting through the contents of yet another Las Vegas dumpster-turned-hiding-place-for-blood-stained-clothes. He’d bagged 78 individual pieces of trace evidence and handed over more than two hundred prints to the haggard-looking print tech before leaving the lab. Lying down on the ruffled bed had felt like a little piece of heaven.

He fumbles over the night stand, finds his phone and somehow manages to press the right button.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jon, it’s Ross,” a tired voice says on the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I need you to come back in. 419 over on Dawson, and Wentz insists that he needs our team on this for some reason.”

Jon closes his eyes and curses silently, even as he mentally starts preparing to push the covers away.

“I’m on my way.”

He clicks off the call and somehow manages to push himself into a sitting position. Thin rays of morning sun filter in through the wooden blinds, drawing patterns on the carpet and up along the side of the bed. A stripe of light falls across the surface of the bedside table, reflecting off a thin gold band lying next to his alarm clock. Jon picks up the ring between his thumb and forefinger, slides it on. The metal feels foreign against his skin, but he resists the urge to take it back off nevertheless. He’s been married for over a week. It’s time that he told people.

***

_DAY 1 – 11:05 AM_

The chapel is small and white, simple in its architecture and devoid of neon signs advertising Elvis-themed weddings at special rates. Jon parks his Denali next to a black and white police car and climbs out to get his kit from the back. On the other side of a barrier of yellow and black tape, he spots Detective Wentz and Dr Hurley, the coroner, talking to each other in carefully lowered voices by the main door. Brendon—one of the other CSI’s on Ross’s team—is fiddling with his kit a few yards away from them, already in his coveralls and ready to go. Jon is not surprised. Sometimes, he wonders if Brendon Urie ever sleeps.

“Morning, Walker.”

Jon starts a little as Spencer Smith's voice filters in from behind, his arm brushing casually against Jon's as he walks past. Behind him, Ryan Ross follows with an amused little smirk at the corner of his mouth, echoing the greeting. Jon pushes his left hand deeper into the pocket of his jeans and tries to smile. There's work to do.

***

**FOUR YEARS EARLIER – OCTOBER 22**

Another funeral. Another dead cop to add to the list. Pete has been to six of these gloomy office parties since he joined the LVPD, but this is the first time the body encased in cherry wood and flowers is someone he actually gave a shit about.

He nods at people he recognises, shakes hands as some come up to express their condolences. He wonders how many of them knew his dead partner by more than name and picture. Probably a fair number, actually; Matthew Williams practically grew up in grey hallways and interrogation rooms, worked his way through most departments and was promoted to detective years earlier than people normally did. Pete had resented Williams’s speedy career and higher status when he started; now he’s just grateful he’s not the one in the box.

“Officer Wentz, how are you holding up?”

The Undersheriff’s approach startles him a little, and Pete automatically pulls his shoulders back and stands up straighter, tries to give a smile that’s both appropriate and professional.

“Pretty well under the circumstances, sir. We’re all shaken up, but we do what we can in the team to support one another.

“I’m sorry for your loss. He was a great man.”

Empty words, even though they’re true. Matt was pretty great. Not that someone as high up as Undersheriff David Vaughn Stump would have known it.

“Thank you, sir.”

The other man pauses for a second, looking at Pete with eyes that have both kindness and calculation in them. “Come and sit with me and my family,” he says finally, and Pete does his best not to let the surprise show on his face. “You seem like a good cop, and Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Call my secretary on Monday and schedule an appointment for sometime later next week. We should talk some more.”

Pete nods and somehow manages to make small talk as the Undersheriff guides him through the large cathedral towards one of the front pews. _Detective_ , Pete thinks. Undersheriff Vaughn Stump wants to promote him to Detective and have him take Williams’s place in their team. There’s no other plausible reason for an official meeting at this point. While that thought is making circles in Pete’s head, another strikes: Vaughn Stump used Matt’s given name. Pete wonders why.

“This is Patricia, my wife,” Vaughn Stump says, introducing a slim, strawberry-blonde woman in a beautiful dark-blue suit and pearls. “Patricia, this is Officer Pete Wentz, Matthew’s partner.”

They shake hands, white gloves touching lightly. Patricia has Hollywood-beautiful tears in her eyes, threatening to spill over and ruin the impeccable make-up on her face but never quite crossing the line—a perfect picture of contained sorrow.

“Matthew was our nephew,” the Undersheriff says quietly, and the things immediately make more sense. “We were all very fond of him.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete offers. Patricia smiles a little and squeezes his hand, repeats the words back to him. Pete likes her, in spite of the obvious WASP status and perfectly arranged hair. He opens his mouth to say something more, when a voice from behind cuts him off.

“Dad, I can’t find Sister Mary or Father Francis _or_ my sheet music. Can you please help me find out what comes after ‘deducant te angeli’ in the paradisum part, because I’m going nuts here and I know I know it, I just can’t get—hi.”

Pete stares. He tries not to, maybe even manages it, he’s not sure. There’s a teenage boy in front of him. A little shorter than Pete, soft-faced and wide-eyed. A blush in his cheeks from hurrying down the aisle, a pretty pout in his lips and the same strawberry-blond hair as the woman standing next to him. He can’t be more than sixteen.

“I’m sorry. Officer Wentz, this is my son Patrick. Patrick, Pete Wentz.”

“Nice to meet you.” Patrick extends his hand, and Pete takes it, feels the warmth against his gloved palm and does his best to offer the same polite phrases back.

“Patrick’s in the choir,” Mrs Vaughn Stump says, a distinct tone of pride in her voice. “He’ll be singing during Mass. Now, what was it that you needed help with, honey?”

Patrick blushes, embarrassed to be called ‘honey’ by his mother in front of strangers in uniform, no doubt. “The requiem,” he mumbles. “The last part— _In Paradisum_ —the third line, between ‘deducant te angeli’ and ‘suscipiant te martyres’.”

Patricia’s brow furrows in confusion. “Isn’t that a soprano part?” she asks, looking up at her husband for confirmation. “I thought you were singing the _Libera Me_ solo?”

“I was,” Patrick replies, a little impatiently, which earns him a disapproving look. “I mean, I still am, but Greta has some kind of throat-thing and keeps going off key, and Father Francis said that I would have to sing her parts too. I have the range, we’re just taking it down an octave. But, yes, that means that I’ve had to learn both _Pie Jesu_ and _In Paradisum_ in less than thirty minutes so if you could please help me figure out the words I’m missing, like _now_ , that would be really great.”

_“Patrick.”_

The Undersheriff’s voice is quiet enough not to be heard by more than the people in their little circle, but still sharp enough to make Patrick’s mouth snap shut and for him to lower his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry,” he says, voice dropping to the same soft register as his father’s. “I don’t know why I’m this nervous. I know the piece, I—It’s just—nothing. I’m sorry.”

For some reason, Patrick turns to Pete when he looks back up, as though they’re in a 19th Century novel and Pete should be offended by Patrick’s lack of decorum. And Pete is pretty sure that the boy before him is not _actually_ a little brighter than the rest of the congregation, but somehow his eyes don’t want to understand this.

“In tuo adventu,” he hears himself say. “After the angels. That’s what comes next.”

All three Vaughn Stumps look at him in surprise, and Pete sees the Undersheriff’s eyes warm up another few degrees.

Or he would if he could focus on anything other than the smile that lights up Patrick’s face.

_Oh please no…_

“Thanks,” Patrick says, eyes lingering on Pete for another couple of moments before he says something about having to go join the rest of the choir and warm up before the service starts. “It was nice meeting you,” he adds, holding out his hand for Pete to shake in polite goodbye. All Pete can see is a plump bottom lip pulled in and worried quickly by white teeth before it pops out again, adding sheen to the sparkle. The hand in his is warmer this time, fingers pressing together a little more firmly. Pete feels the touch right after he replies with an empty phrase of his own and right before the contact breaks: a careful caress over the heart of his palm, hidden from view as Patrick angles their hands slightly downwards.

_Fuck._

Pete doesn’t know how he manages to keep his expression of pleasant indifference, but somehow, he obviously does, because Patrick's father keeps smiling at him as they make their way into the pew.

“I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” he comments as they take their seats. “I don’t think I’ve noticed you at Mass before. I suppose it makes a lot of sense, though. Matthew always spoke very highly of you. Said you were a man with the heart in the right place.”

The truth is that even though Pete did grow up in a wonderfully respectful Catholic family with rosaries and prayer and Latin sprouting from his ears, he hasn’t been to Mass since he was fifteen and came to the conclusion that organised religion was a load of bullshit hypocrisy. But the fucking _Undersheriff_ is looking down at him as though he’s the proverbial lost son, and his head is already too full with new impressions and feelings to be able to do anything more than nod and say something vague about privacy and personal preferences. Vaughn Stump keeps throwing him little glances as the service starts, and Pete tries not to think too much about the way his body automatically falls into the set patterns of movement and speech.

The priest talks about God and heaven. Other people get up and talk about Matthew Williams, transforming Pete’s former partner into a shining saint in line with accepted funeral tradition. The choir sings, and Pete listens with his eyes firmly focused on a neutral point somewhere in the distance. That is, until the _Pie Jesu_ begins and a single, clear voice fills up the cathedral.

His mouth doesn’t drop open, but it’s a close call.

And when Patrick Vaughn Stump lets the last note die out and looks straight into Pete’s eyes, any semblance of choice Pete might have had slides easily and irrevocably out of his joined hands.

_In Paradisum deducant te angeli_

Pete knows that Patrick won’t sing those words for another half-hour or so as they belong to the last part of the funeral mass, but he has no illusions that he will be able to keep himself from following this boy now, with or without wings, wherever Patrick wants to take them.

So, yeah. Fuck.

***

_DAY 1 – 11.20 AM_

Jon has been working as a CSI for about five years, but every time he walks onto a crime scene, something inside him is genuinely shocked to see a dead body there. There are crime scenes and _crime scenes_ though—everything from messy, domestic chaos with a kitchen knife and blood on the carpet to meticulously planned and staged performances at the other end of the scale.

This is the latter.

The victim is male, in his early thirties, carefully placed and posed on top of the altar. Jon's first thought is _beautiful,_ which should feel strange, but doesn't. The man is wrapped in a simple, white bath robe and looks like he just fell asleep on his bed after a really good day. The face is relaxed and happy. It doesn't look like a crime at all.

“Are we sure this is a murder?” Jon asks, nudging Spencer aside as he snaps another round of pictures. “Because this guy doesn't really look that unhappy to be here, to be honest.”

“Well,” Ross says, pausing slightly to adjust the sunglasses he insists on wearing even inside the dimly lit church, “you know what they say about little deaths.”

“Nothing little about this one,” Spencer quips. “God, how tall is this guy? Like fifteen feet?”

“You're just jealous that he's taller than you,” Brendon says, coming down the aisle from where he's been processing the area by the door. “Ross, do you think it's okay for us to put out the candles? I need it to be a bit darker for the [ALS.](http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,280505,00.html)”

“Yeah, should be fine. Jon, you got all the pictures you needed of the overall scene, right?”

Jon nods and puts down his camera, watches Brendon come to a sudden halt as he gets a first good look of the victim.

“Do you know him?” Ross asks, moving close to Brendon and putting a careful hand on his lower back. Brendon nods, and Jon can see him take a few deep breaths before opening his mouth to speak.

“His name is William Beckett,” Brendon says. “He’s a doctor at Spring Valley hospital. Paediatrics. I think he works with the cancer kids. I don't actually know him, just recognise his face, you know?” A side-effect of Brendon never sleeping is that he has about twenty thousand projects going on outside of work. Playing guitar at the hospital is one of them.

Ryan nods, and Jon watches as Brendon carefully circles the altar, blowing out what must be at least fifty candles. The blue light of the ALS feels eerie, the sudden contrast a little too sharp.

“Hey, guys, I think we have something.”

Ross moves closer, peering over Brendon's shoulder at the smudges showing up on the victim's body.

“Blood?” Jon asks, fiddling with the camera to change the settings to night view.

“No, Ross was right the first time,” Brendon replies. “I've got traces of semen underneath the robe. Lower abdomen and thighs. Hang on.” He moves the ALS to the side, frowning.

“There's a bit on the left hand as well,” he says. “Wait, this can't be right.”

“What do you have?”

“He's wearing a ring,” Brendon says. “Which, yeah, isn't normally such a strange thing, but this guy has quite a reputation. I swear that there are nurses who never form a single sentence that doesn't somehow involve how they have a date with him or how he's such a slut for dumping them or cheating on them with one of the other nurses. Trust me, if he got married, I would have heard about it.”

“Dust it,” Ross says. “If he's not married, then the killer might have put it there. Maybe we can get a print.”

Jon snaps a few more frames before Brendon turns off the ALS, moving out of the way to give Spencer room to work.

“I think I might have a partial,” Spencer says finally. “It's hard to tell. And if not, we still have a whole bunch of swabs. Let's take this back to the lab and see if Zack can work his usual magic.”

“Good idea,” Ross agrees. “Jon, Brendon, you need more time?”

Jon shakes his head. He's taken what pictures he can. The rest will have to be done at the lab, after the autopsy.

“Okay, let's go then,” Ross says with a nod. “Andy!” he calls towards the small group of men gathered just outside. “We're done here. He's all yours.”

Dr Hurley gives them all thumbs up and disappears around the corner to call for the gurney.

***

**OCTOBER 26**

Pete comes to Patrick's choir practice the Thursday following Matthew’s funeral. Or, rather, he stalks Patrick's choir practice, because he doesn't actually come up and say hi. Instead, Patrick watches him lurk in the shadows in one of the back pews, keeping his head down. The dress uniform is long gone, white gloves and brass buttons and carefully slicked back hair replaced with jeans and a grey hoodie. He looks tired, and Patrick wonders why; and then he wonders why he's even interested in the first place. Their eyes meet for a second in the quiet between two measures, and Patrick pulls new air a little too fast into his lungs. As different as Pete's overall appearance is from the first time they met, his eyes are exactly the same—just a little darker. Patrick would have recognised him anywhere.

The choir practices for the regular three hours. Patrick gets bored after about half of it, around the time when the first tenors struggle to get their harmony right for the nine thousandth time over. He lets his attention wander from the conductor, eyes drawn almost immediately towards the back of the church.

Pete is gone.

***

**OCTOBER 29**

People say that the third time is the charm. Pete would rather call it a curse.

He’s sitting at a dinner table in a beautiful dining room, surrounded by white linen and polished silver, doing his best to keep up with the conversation about the dry weather they’ve been having lately.

“Would you care for some wine?” Patricia asks, stopping by his side on her way around the table.

“Thank you, but I shouldn’t,” Pete replies. “I’ll need to drive back home pretty early.”

“Oh, that’s not a problem,” Patricia says, smiling. “Patrick's had his drivers licence for almost six months now. He could take you back. Didn’t you say you were going over to Jason’s, honey?”

Patrick looks up from where he’d been fiddling with his napkin, and Pete can’t believe how innocent his face is. “Yes, we’re working on our science project,” Patrick says, shifting his attention between his mom and Pete when he talks. “I told him I’d be over by five, but if we left right after dinner, I’d have time to take you back to your place before that.” He sounds polite and a little bit bored—every inch the well-brought-up young man who will do his mother favours with a smile, even when he doesn’t particularly wish to.

The foot slowly inching its way up the inside of Pete’s calf under the table tells a rather different story.

***

_DAY 1 – 8:10 PM_

“Hi, Patrick, right?” Jon asks, walking up to the desk at the back of the Audio Lab and extending his hand to the guy behind it. “I'm Jon, CSI-III. On Ross's team.”

The other guy smiles and takes his hand. He's pretty cute—all strawberry-blond and soft-looking. Surprisingly young, even for a tech.

“Yeah, that's me. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. You started on Monday, right? Audio analysis?”

“That's what they told me, at least,” Patrick says. “To be honest, I've mainly been making myself coffee and updating my iTunes so far. Oh, and getting some nice, solid experience in how to handle sexual harassment.”

Jon grins. “Wentz discover you?” he asks. “Yeah, don't worry about that. He's just... actually, I don't know what he is. I think he missed a few lessons on proper conduct back at the academy. He's just cuddly though. All talk and no action. I’ve never seen him make a serious attempt to hit on someone in the two years I’ve been working here, and I’m pretty sure he’s actually straight. So don't worry about it.”

“Thanks, I'll remember that,” Patrick says, and there's a small curve to his mouth, like he's trying to keep himself from grinning. “So, can I help you with anything? I'm not allowed to do too much, because I technically didn't finish college yet, but if you need help enhancing something, I'm all yours.”

“Yeah, that's a sentence you should definitely never say around Wentz,” Jon replies. “He'd tattoo your name in a heart on his arm and start calling you his sweetie-pie or something.” This time, there's a definite smirk on Patrick's face. Jon likes him. “So, college, huh?” he continues. “What are you studying?”

“Music and pre-law, double major,” Patrick replies. “Dad thought I should do something practical as well. Apparently, musicians starve in the street and get killed by drug-addicts.”

“Actually, lawyers tend to get killed off a lot more,” Jon says. “Especially corporate ones. Something about people not liking other people taking all their money and losing huge casino deals.”

“I'll be sure to bring it up next time we discuss my college fund,” Patrick grins. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Hey, no problem,” Jon says. “So, anyway, I have a bunch of recorded phone calls in the evidence box for what looks like a murder/suicide. They're pretty crappy quality, and I need to get some of the background noise enhanced, but I'm completely swamped with the new murder that came in this morning. You up for it?”

Patrick smiles and reaches for his laptop.

***

_DAY 1 – 9.25 PM_

“Holy shit,” Brendon exclaims, moving away from the desk by one of the windows and crossing the plush, white bedroom carpet to where Ryan is working the ALS over the giant bed dominating the room.

“What did you find?”

“Dr Beckett's little black book. Jesus, I think the phone directory I have at home has fewer names in it than this.” Brendon flips through the book, then stops, frowns, skims the last few pages again.

“What's wrong?”

“These are all really girly names,” Brendon says. “I mean, with this many people, you would think that there'd be all sorts, but this is all Maggie and Susie and Mollie and Lexie and a whole lot of other names that end in cute vowel sounds. I thought for sure there would be...”

He trails off. Ryan walks a little closer, takes the book from Brendon's hands.

“What?”

“I thought there'd be guys in here too,” Brendon says simply. “There was this fund raiser at the hospital. Three-four months ago maybe? And I ran into this guy there, and we talked for a couple of minutes, and I kind of got the impression that he... you know.”

Something contracts in Ryan's stomach. He flips the pages to 'B.' Five Britneys, two Brendas, a Belinda and a Beth. The knot inside him loosens.

“Hang on,” Brendon says from where he’s looking through the content of Dr Beckett’s bedside table. “I have something else.”

“More names?”

“Actually, I think this might be his journal.”

***

**OCTOBER 29**

“So, how would you go about committing the perfect crime?” Patrick asks as they’re driving down the streets in sleepy Las Vegas Sunday traffic.

Pete can’t help but smile a little, thinking of innocent faces and covert touches. “I think you’re doing pretty well, so far,” he says, chuckling at the smug expression that crosses Patrick’s face. “I can tell you right now what your downfall is going to be, though.”

“Oh really?”

Never in his life has Pete Wentz heard a challenge that sounded so much like a proposition.

“Yeah. Turn here. Second building on the right.”

Patrick stops the car in front of a big apartment complex and turns off the engine. He looks around, takes in the less-than-luxurious surroundings with a frown on his face.

“You live _here?_ ”

“Expecting a castle?”

“Well, no. But a house at least. I mean, everyone else my dad works with has a house. Why not you?”

“Maybe I’m a lazy asshole who can’t be bothered to weed the garden,” Pete replies easily, unbuckling his seatbelt. “So, how much of a lie did you tell your mom? How much time do you really have before you need to be at your friend’s?”

Patrick bites his lower lip, and Pete can’t keep back a chuckle. “Do you even _have_ a friend named Jason?” he asks with a grin. “Because using an imaginary friend as your alibi is a very crappy idea if you want to be a criminal mastermind.”

“Screw you.”

Pete replies by leaning quickly over the armrest, one hand wrapping around the back of Patrick’s head and bringing their faces together. The kiss is barely even there, just a soft brush of lips, slow and sweet. Patrick jerks away almost immediately, and Pete lets his hand fall. “Careful what you wish for,” he says quietly, trying to focus on something other than the way Patrick wets his lips reflexively and the way his own heart beats much too hard and fast inside his chest. “Thanks for the ride.”

He gets out of the car before Patrick has the chance to recover, walks up the concrete path to his building without looking back. He sees the faces of Patrick's parents before him, words from a couple of days earlier, when David shook his hand and handed over a new, shiny badge, echoing uncomfortably in his head.

_We need good men in this office. I believe you're one of them._

Pete trips on the step just inside the main doors and squeezes his eyes shut around the pain that shoots through his knees as he hits the ground. It's not enough to distract him from the memory of Patrick—or his family—and Pete isn't stupider than that he realises what a complete mess he's in.

_In Paradisum deducant te angeli._

Pete is so, so fucked.

***

_DAY 1 – 11:50 PM_

“You got _married?_ ”

Ryan stops dead in his tracks, hand freezing on the handle to the door of the break room. Behind him, Brendon comes to a halt as well.

“Spencer, God, just—”

Jon’s voice. And _whoa_ —when the hell did _that_ happen? Ryan throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Brendon shakes his head, eyes wide, and leans a little closer—closer to the _door,_ Ryan clarifies to no one in particular—listening intently.

“You haven’t even dated anyone in ages! How the _fuck_ can you be married!” Spencer shouts. A small, forgotten part of Ryan feels cheerfully vindicated at the obvious pain in Spencer’s voice. The remaining 95% of him mostly feels a little sick.

“I fucked up, okay?” Jon throws back. “What? Did you think I _meant_ for this to happen with what—Fuck, Spence, do you really see me as that much of an asshole?”

“I don’t know,” Spencer says coldly. “Would I be wrong?”

“No.” Jon’s voice is quiet. Ryan has never heard so much feeling fit into a single word before. “I guess you wouldn’t.”

Brendon leans in even closer, practically glued to Ryan’s back now. It makes breathing kind of difficult.

“When?”

“About a week ago.”

There is a long silence.

“Why?”

“It was right after Holly was shot,” Jon says. “I _know_ it was my fault, okay? Even if people don’t come right out and say it. I fucked up royally that night, and I—I guess I tried to forget the whole day ever happened. I did a pretty good job. I went out, got drunk. There was this really sweet girl—Cassie—working at the bar. She helped me home. I don’t remember if I asked her to stay or if she did it on her own. I don’t remember much at all. The next day, I woke up naked and sticky with her head on my shoulder. And I felt like a complete jerk, but we had breakfast and talked and it wasn’t a big deal. She left, and I kind of pushed it out of my mind. There was so much other shit going on with the IA enquiry and that fucking three-week suspension and trying to have any kind of conversation with any of you without it turning into a huge fight—and then she was pregnant.”

“Pregnant?”

“She’s _twenty-one,_ Spence. She doesn’t believe in abortion and has no family here. What else could I do?”

“ _Not_ marry her without even telling your friends?”

“Spencer, I’m _sorry._ ”

“Don’t,” Spencer says, and Ryan recognises that particular tone of voice all too well. He really wishes that he didn’t. “It’s fine. It’s not like we were dating or anything. Just… forget about it.”

“Spence…”

“I said fucking forget about it!” Spencer hisses. Ryan pulls back from the door as quickly as he can, dragging Brendon with him around the nearest corner.

The door to the break room slams. Ryan lets Spencer’s steps fade to a soft shuffle before pushing off the wall.

“I’ll go talk to him.”

Brendon nods numbly. Ryan makes to move away, only to be stopped by Brendon’s hand on his elbow.

“Ryan—”

Brendon isn’t quite meeting his eyes. The question hangs between them, words unspoken like they always are. Ryan pulls away from the touch, squeezing Brendon’s hand quickly in answer before heading off down the hall.

***

**OCTOBER 29**

Patrick drives to his usual place. It's in the rocky parts east of Vegas—one of the few places outside the carefully planned and gardened green city areas to display something similar to forest. Patrick's always liked trees for some reason. And having to drive half an hour longer and top up a couple of gallons of gas is a lot better than being caught because of his mom's car suddenly changing colour to 'desert dust.'

It's actually not that hard, sneaking off and making an odd, isolated life for himself outside of his parents' expectations. Patrick learned very early on that appearances are more than enough in his family. His dad's motto has always been 'Ask the right questions'. From what Patrick gathers, the right questions are the ones where the answers will assure you that everything is just fine.

_Do you even_ have _a friend named Jason?_

Actually, he does. Lying with the truth is something he learned from his mom. (Hiding in plain sight is another.) He sometimes wonders if he should be bothered by all the false propriety and transparent Stepfordness around him, but the truth is that it keeps him freer than most people he knows. His dad works long hours and his mom puts in at least as much time with her charities and social life. As long as he's discreet enough to keep people from talking, Patrick can do pretty much whatever he wants.

What does he want?

He stops the car where the narrow path ends, walks the last fifty yards or so to a small plateau where there's a nice view of the sky and just miles and miles of desert and rock spreading out beneath him.

He sits down on the dry grass, touches his lips.

Pete kissed him.

There's a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. Like arousal, but warmer—deeper somehow. Patrick doesn't know what to make of it. He thought he was only playing with power a little, testing out the waters to see what kind of reactions he could get. Now, he's not so sure.

_Careful what you wish for._

Pete is twenty-eight. Patrick found his MySpace. He wonders briefly how long the prison sentence would be if his dad found out.

He thoughtfully slips off the silver ring he wears on his fourth finger and twirls it around the tip of his thumb. It still feels completely right. It's simple in the way the sky is simple, and music, and God. It just _fits_ , somehow. Like it was always meant to be part of him.

Patrick knows that people don't understand this about him. Knows that they see the good Catholic boy and thinks that he's just like Adam or Tom or Greta—that he believes in set rules rather than in things that actually mean something, and thinking in terms of sin and penance and forgiveness just like the rest of them.

Then he remembers the knowing look on Pete's face right before he left the car and wonders if maybe—just maybe—Pete sees the simple things too.


	2. Patience

**NOVEMBER 2**

Patrick’s favourite place in the cathedral is the empty confessional. He knows this is weird, so when people ask, he usually tells them something different. Patrick doesn’t really know what it is that makes the small, dark space so appealing. He doesn’t really enjoy _confession_ , and he rarely has anything to say. The little things just don’t seem important enough to take up, and Patrick prefers to deal with the bigger things on his own. But there’s something about the room itself that just clicks with him. It’s good for thinking and humming little made-up melodies under his breath and just existing in space for awhile.

So when choir practice is over, Patrick stays behind, and once everybody has left, he packs up his stuff and slips through the wooden door, sitting down on the bench.

“Hi,” Pete says, and Patrick practically jumps out of his skin. “Um—so do you come here often?”

“Jesus, Pete!” Patrick hisses. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I like it here,” Pete says simply. “It’s nice. Quiet, you know? You can hear yourself think in here. And somehow, it’s not so dark when you have darkness all around you.”

Patrick mumbles something affirmative and takes a couple of deep breaths to slow his racing pulse. It doesn’t work all that well. The shock wears off, but there are other reactions coming up behind it: confusion, anticipation and something that kind of grinds and pulses a little, to name a few. It’s Pete. Him and Pete. Alone and pretty darn well hidden. It’s possible that Patrick has seen a few too many movies where similar situations happen to be entirely calm.

“So, Patrick Vaughn Stump,” Pete says quietly. “What other powers have you got?”

He's playing with something; Patrick can see Pete's hands move through the dark netting that separates them.

“What do you mean?”

“You sing like there’s true beauty in the world, like there’s this big fucking light everywhere that will make everything okay in the end,” Pete says, and Patrick realises that the thing in his hands is actually a rosary. “And I see a lot of shit, okay? Every day, I go to work and see murder and assault and rape, but when I hear you, it’s like all of that just fades away.”

Patrick’s received a lot of praise for his voice over the years, and he knows he sings well, but no one’s ever put it quite like that. It doesn’t feel like a compliment, really; it’s a little too sharp, like the words burn his skin slightly when they make contact.

“I’m not that good.”

Pete’s face splits into a smile, eyes still fixed on the string of wooden beads in his hands. “Figures…”

“Seriously, dude, what?” The words come out too loud. Patrick can feel the confusion inside him spill over the edge.

“I used to be big on all this shit,” Pete replies. “And then I got over it. But I never really got over _this,_ you know? Being filled with light. Like you’re just… loved, I guess. And everything seems so easy. Like there are no other roads to walk out there.”

Patrick nods. They’ve both shifted a little closer to the wall.

“And then?”

“And then the light goes away and you’re in the middle of a maze. And there are a million roads to choose from. And no fucking signs.”

“Pete…”

“Are you a map, Patrick?” Pete muses, almost to himself. “Or just another will-o'-the-wisp?”

Patrick bites his lip, because everything that floats up his throat sounds just kind of stupid in reply to that. He remembers the feel of Pete’s mouth—hasn’t really been able to stop remembering since it happened. He watches the side of Pete's face through the grille, how his lips move continuously while Pete’s fingers go through the length of beads. Patrick wonders what he’s praying for, if that’s even what he’s doing. Maybe Pete’s going through his weekly shopping list, who knows?

“What kind of things do you wish for?” Patrick asks, flashing back to Pete’s mouth forming similar words as he pulled back and left the car instead of going for more kisses.

“Same as you,” Pete replies, and there’s a brief moment where their eyes meet and Pete gives him another little smile. “Bye, Patrick.”

Pete slides the divider completely shut, leaving Patrick in quiet darkness. Patrick closes his eyes and leans back against the wood. Pete’s words stay with him, replaying in his head. It’s a strange feeling, but it’s good too. New. And a little bit addictive.

***

_DAY 7 – 8:50 PM_

“Please state your name for the record,” Pete says, looking pointedly at the young man in front of him.

“Alexander Suarez.”

“Thank you. So, Mr Suarez, I'm assuming that you know the people in these photographs?”

“Yeah. That's Gabe, my roommate. And that's Hannah. She's his little sister. She lives with us as well.” The guy swallows and blinks a couple of times. The pictures aren't in any way gruesome, but Pete knows from experience that people see other things in them than the detectives and CSI's do, especially when they've just come out of the morgue after identifying their loved ones.

“You reported them missing this morning,” Pete continues, keeping his voice as smooth as he can. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I work nights at Wendy's three days a week. Come home around four thirty, collapse into bed. When I woke up this morning, they weren't there.”

“So you called the police. Why?”

“Hannah's... complicated,” Alex says. “She's not in the best of places. And Gabe tries. God, he tries _so hard,_ but it's like it's never enough, you know?” He trails off, as though he's debating with himself whether he's said too much already.

“Complicated how?”

“I'm not sure I can tell you that.”

“Mr Suarez,” Pete says evenly. “Your friends are dead. If you want to help us find whoever did this, you need to tell us what you know.”

The guy across from him looks away. There's silence for a while.

“When... Hannah's sick,” Alex says finally. “Like, really sick. Their dad—Gabe thinks—thought—that Hannah was about nine when it started. 'Whimpers in the night,' he called it. Gabe's two years older. They lived in this miserable cabin twenty miles out of town. No one to hear or help you. Easy thing to beat up a skinny kid or lock him in a room if he tries to interfere. Gabe ran away when he was fourteen, lived in the streets for a while before one of the charities found him. I met him in high school, moved in with him after we graduated. He would never talk about his family or how he grew up back then. As far as I knew, he didn't even have a sister. Then, about a year ago, the phone rang. Gabe's dad had driven his truck into a tree. He died a few hours later.”

“And then?”

“Gabe brought Hannah home to stay with us. It was a bad idea from the start. She was so messed up. Afraid of sound, light, touch—everything. She would tense up when I came into the room. For the first three months she didn't let anyone but Gabe within five feet of her. She tried to kill herself twice in the first month. We got really good at hiding anything that was sharp or toxic after that.”

“What about Social Services?”

“Gabe refused. Said it was his fault for not being able to protect her. Which was all complete bull of course, but he refused to let go. Said I could move out if it was too much to handle, that he'd understand if I did.”

“So why didn't you?”

“He needed me. As hard as he tried, he couldn't take care of both himself and Hannah on his own. The first trips to the emergency room cost a fortune. We tried to avoid the hospital after that. Too much money and too many questions. Gabe was already working two jobs to pay for his college tuition. When Hannah came, he dropped out of most of his classes and took a third job to pay for her meds.”

“What kind of medication was she on?”

“Antidepressants, mainly. Things that made her sleepy and kept her from killing herself.”

“Where did you get hold of them if you weren't seeing a doctor?”

“Gabe... he knew a guy. Someone he'd met when he was living in the streets. A really nice guy. MD down at the children's hospital. Gabe would call him when things got bad, and he would come around the house. Bring new pills for Hannah, clothes from the donations box, food sometimes. Hannah seemed to calm down when he was around. She got a little better every time. In the first six months, he came almost twice a week.”

“And three crappy jobs that a college drop out could hold with a sick sister to look after covered all of that?” Pete asks. He has an inkling as to where this story is going, but he still needs to get it on tape.

Alex looks at him for a long time. Then he shakes his head. “No.”

“So did the kind doctor cover the remaining expenses out of the goodness of his heart?” Pete says. “Or was there something else involved? Drugs? Sex? Other services rendered?”

Alex's face turns red and angry, as though he'd very much like to pull Pete out of his chair and punch his lights out. There's no mistaking the flinch as Pete repeats the question though.

“So, another altruistic John,” Pete says, trying to push the other man a little further, because there's more to the story than that. Pete's been a detective for long enough to know how to tell. “Did he stay for breakfast?”

“It wasn't like that,” Alex says quietly, still holding on to his self-control. “Yeah, so they fucked. Gabe never told me much about it, just that they were helping each other out, and that he was fine with that. The guy was genuinely nice. I know he cared about both of them. It was pretty obvious. He was never creepy or violent that I saw. Never treated Gabe as anything other than a friend. For a while I thought there was something more going on, even. Like, they were falling in love or some shit, even though Gabe was actually straight. Or, you know, that's what he told me, at least.”

“So what was the catch?”

“Why would there be one?”

“Because you're having that special reluctant-witness look on your face that tells me that there is more to the story. What was the good doctor's name?”

“It doesn't matter. There's no way he could have killed Gabe. Or Hannah.”

“Well, as happy as I am that you're helping me with the investigation, I'd be much happier with a name.”

There's another long silence. Pete uses it to have one of the guards bring him another coffee.

“Bill,” Alex says finally. “He works with the cancer kids at Spring Valley. Tall guy. Brown hair. I don't know his last name.”

“Hang on.” Pete flips through his file until he finds another set of photographs. “Is this him?”

“Yeah,” Alex says, confused. “That's him. But why do you... He's dead too?”

“Killed the same way as your friends about a week ago,” Pete confirms. “Any thoughts on who could have done it?”

“No.” A flicker of something crosses Alex's face. Pete blinks, and it's gone again. “No, I have no idea.”

“Alex,” Pete says gently, reaching into his file for another photograph. “Look at this.” He places the picture on the table between them. It's one of the first ones taken when the CSI's arrived at the scene. Gabriel Saporta is laid out on top of the altar, wrapped in a white bathrobe, peaceful and smiling in warm candlelight. Below, on the marble floor, is his sister, dressed in a simple summer dress and with flowers in her hair, posed in a sitting position with her legs crossed and her head leaned back against the altar. Hannah Saporta's right arm has been carefully placed in front of her, wrist balancing on her knee. The hand has been joined with Gabe's left and secured together with a white ribbon. Pete feels something weird happen in his chest every time he looks at it.

“This is not the work of some random stranger,” Pete says. “This was done with a lot of preparation by someone who seems to have cared a great deal about both of them. From what you're telling me, the list of people fitting that profile consists of you and a dead guy. So, that means, Alex, that unless you tell me what else there is that you know, I only have one suspect. What's it gonna be?”

Alex Suarez looks at the picture, then at Pete, then back at the picture again, trailing the contours of the still bodies with his fingers.

“There was this other guy,” he says. “I never met him. Never knew his name. But I heard Gabe and Bill talk about him about a month ago.”

“Go on.”

“They were fighting. Gabe and Bill never fought. They were in the kitchen, trying to keep their voices down so as not to upset Hannah, but the apartment is pretty small, and I was in the hallway, so... It sounded like they were breaking up. Not that they were together to start with, but, you know. Bill had met someone. Another guy. And he wanted to make a go of it. Said Hannah was doing much better anyway. That Gabe didn't really need him anymore. Gabe tried to convince him to stay. They kissed. There was a sound of glass breaking, like someone had been pushed against the counter and managed to pull a few things down. And then Bill left. He didn't come back. We got a bunch of signed prescription notes in the mail a couple of days later, but that was it.”

Pete looks at his face. Alex Suarez looks tired, drained somehow. Pete thinks back at the evidence he, Brendon and Ryan pulled from the journal they found at William Beckett's house. The three of them spent almost an entire night going through the different relationships weaving back and forth over the pages, connecting them with names in Beckett's phone and little black book. One they didn't manage to match talked about unfinished business, guilt and closing doors. Alex's story fits the profile like a glove.

“Thank you for your help,” Pete says, getting to his feet and holding out his hand. “I'm very sorry for your loss and I appreciate you coming down here. We'll call you if we need anything else.”

Alex nods and follows one of the guards out of the room. He doesn't look back.

***

**NOVEMBER 10**

The club is absolutely packed when Pete gets there, running late because of stupid reports that apparently just _couldn’t wait_ until Monday. He impatiently stands in line like everyone else; this is not one of the venues he usually goes to, and the surly-looking man at the door doesn’t know him from the next guy, so there’s no point in even trying to bypass. The band is just starting as he enters the lower level, and he heads straight for the floor, the crowd packed so tightly around him that there’s barely even room to breathe.

The band is good. Rough around the edges and full of energy and potential. Pete loses himself in the music and the movement all around him, drifts slowly towards the centre of the crowd, letting himself be pushed through the sea of people. It’s been a while since he went out like this, and he’s missed it—the mindlessness of pumping rhythm, the anonymity of the crowd and the way his hair feels on his face when it’s not slicked back to match a uniform.

There’s a guy with a ridiculously high baseball cap on pretty much right in front of him, and he’s blocking the view of the stage. Pete tries to manoeuvre to the side, but people keep pushing back, and after a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he moves forward instead, puts his hands on baseball cap’s hips and leans over his shoulder to make himself heard over the music.

“Hey, man, could you get rid of the hat? I can’t see anything back here.”

Pete expects the guy to turn and look back over his shoulder at him. Annoyed maybe, or good-naturedly if Pete’s lucky. He doesn’t expect the reaction he gets, which is the guy freezing against him and then twisting around so fast that Pete stumbles backwards, knocking into two girls making out behind him.

“What the hell, dude—” he begins, because this isn’t the kind of scene where people tend to be freaked out by another guys hands on their hips. And then his eyes move up to the guy’s face, and his mind shuts down.

“Patrick?”

The guy looks just as shocked as Pete feels, eyes almost comically wide in the semi-darkness. The crowd starts pushing again, and Pete reaches out automatically, grabs Patrick’s wrist to keep them together as they’re carried forward. They end up front to front, boxed in by nameless bodies who don’t give a shit about who either of them are or what they might be doing.

Pete feels Patrick’s hands slide around his waist, gripping the fabric on the back of his shirt like he has no idea of what he’s doing but can’t really help himself. Pete pulls himself back together just in time to realise that one of his own hands is stroking Patrick’s hip and the other one has slid its way around Patrick’s neck and into the hair at the back of his head.

Patrick keeps staring. He also keeps wetting his lips, pulling them between his teeth, breaths coming hot and fast, and _fuck_ , Pete isn’t a monk; he doesn’t have this much self-control—not when Patrick is tilting his head up and pulling him closer, inching his hands downwards and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of Pete’s jeans.

Pete kisses him.

It’s nothing like the first kiss. There’s nothing sweet and innocent about the way Patrick moans into his mouth and kisses back, hot and wet and fucking needy. And Pete can’t help himself; he hooks his arm around Patrick’s neck and deepens the kiss, pushes them back through the crowd to find a wall, or a pillar—any kind of vertical surface that he could use to press them even closer to one another. Patrick’s hands slide into the back pockets of his jeans, and Pete has to break the kiss and lean his forehead against Patrick’s shoulder to breathe, because _Jesus._

They hit something solid—an amp by the feel of it, the heavy, pulsing rhythm of a bassline reverberating through Pete’s back as he turns them around and pulls Patrick in for another kiss. Patrick’s hands are gripping his hips now, just opening and closing over Pete’s hipbones like they’ve lost track of where they were headed. Pete groans and bats them away, repositions them on his stomach, pulling up the worn t-shirt that separates Patrick’s hands from heated skin. He shifts his hips, letting a thigh slide between Patrick’s legs, pressing up and swallowing Patrick’s moan when he jerks away at the contact. Pete wraps his arms around Patrick’s back, kisses him again, coaxes him back with his hands and mouth until Patrick is grinding helplessly against Pete’s thigh, breathing going haywire and hands moving mindlessly over Pete’s chest and stomach under his shirt.

“Ow! Fuck! Sorry, guys.”

A skinny kid in a red t-shirt and leather pants stumbles into them, drunk or pushed by the crowd—the reason doesn’t really matter, but it serves to break the moment and give Pete a flash of clarity. He grabs the back of Patrick’s head and leans in close to his ear, resisting the urge to make a stop for more dizzying kisses on the way.

“Wanna get out of here?”

***

Patrick attacks him as soon as they’re inside Pete’s apartment, kicking off his shoes and pushing Pete’s jacket off his shoulders while kissing him like his life depends on it. Warning bells go off somewhere in the back of Pete’s mind; Patrick is pulling at his clothes as though he’s waging an inner battle with himself, hands shaking against Pete’s chest as the damp t-shirt is peeled away from his body. This is not just nerves.

“Hey, slow down.”

Patrick doesn’t listen. His hands are skating along the edge of Pete’s jeans, not quite daring to go for the buttons yet but definitely picking up more courage every time his mouth touches a new patch of skin on Pete’s body and Pete just can’t keep quiet.

A trembling finger slides beneath the tight denim. Pete reels in all the willpower he has left, grabbing both of Patrick’s hands and forcing himself to take a deep breath.

“Patrick, listen. There’s nothing in the world that I want more right now than to take you to my bed and fuck your brains out, but I’m not going to, so stop trying to get into my pants.”

“Huh?” Patrick sounds lost—all swollen lips and dilated pupils and confusion written all over his face. Pete interlaces the fingers of his right hand with the ones on Patrick’s left, holds up the joined grip between them. The silver ring on Patrick’s fourth finger is even more beautiful up close.

“I can’t sleep with you,” he explains. “Because you’re wearing this.”

Patrick just stares at him. Then he gives a shrug that Pete can tell is supposed to be nonchalant and moves closer, tilting his head up for another kiss.

“It doesn’t mean anything. I just got it to please my parents.”

Pete lets himself be pulled into the kiss for a moment, because having Patrick this close and not be kissing him feels about as right as letting a group of serial killers roam free in a daycare centre. He kisses a path from Patrick’s mouth to his jaw, keeps moving along the soft skin until he has Patrick’s ear beneath his lips.

“If I thought you really believed that, I would have you in my bed and coming all over my sheets right about now.”

Patrick jerks back. Or maybe Pete pushes him—he honestly doesn’t know anymore.

“So, let me get this straight,” Patrick says, and Pete resists the bad joke that immediately jumps into his head. “You won’t sleep with me because I’m a virgin? Or because I believe in God?”

“I won’t sleep with you because I want you.”

“In what universe does that even make sense?” Patrick snaps. Pete leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet, trying to smooth out the frustration coming off Patrick in little angry waves until it fades and turns into something beautiful.

“I want to marry you, Patrick,” Pete murmurs against the soft mouth, stealing little nips at Patrick’s bottom lip with his teeth, because it’s just impossible not to. “I want you, Patrick—whatever your middle name is—Vaughn Stump, to let me spend my life with you. I want to take you to bed with this ring on a chain around my neck and my ring on your finger and make fucking well sure that it means just as much as it’s supposed to.”

“You’ve known me for _three weeks_.”

Pete just shrugs.

“You can’t want to marry someone after three weeks!”

“How about half an hour? Because that would probably be a lot closer to the truth.”

“I don’t _believe_ you.”

Pete kisses him again, pressing Patrick up against the door to increase the contact. Keeps kissing him until Patrick is hard and panting and rubbing mindlessly against him.

“I want you. God, Pete, please just touch me.”

Pete pulls away, takes another deep breath, counts down slowly from ten to keep himself from reaching for the top of Patrick’s jeans.

“No,” he repeats, somehow managing to form the word despite the way Patrick’s eyes are practically screaming for Pete to just take what is so clearly being offered. “But maybe you can touch me. Come on.”

His bedroom is an absolute mess with clothes strewn all across the floor, quite a bit of music equipment lying about, a laptop balancing precariously on the edge of the unmade bed and heaps of books and magazines adding a final touch to it all. Pete walks around the bed, pulls out a drawer in the bedside table and reaches inside.

“Trust, right?” he says, holding up a pair of police standard issue handcuffs. 

Patrick’s eyes widen, but he accepts the metal restraints when Pete hands them to him.

“Good,” Pete murmurs, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Get a tie from the wardrobe. You’re about to have your first lesson on how to be a criminal mastermind.”

***

_DAY 9 – 6:45 PM_

“Okay, so what do we know?” Ryan asks, picking up a black marker and turning towards the whiteboard on the wall. “Spencer?”

“We searched Gabe Saporta’s apartment,” Spencer says. “There was evidence there that supports a relationship between him and William Beckett. Jon found a stack of backdated prescription slips for Ativan and Prozac, and we got several hair samples matching Beckett’s DNA. Nothing on the mystery man that Alex Suarez talked to Wentz about in interrogation though. No journal, letters or other writing. If Saporta vented somewhere, he probably did it online, in a private blog or similar. We ran internet searches on names, interests we know, anything else we could think of. Nothing. There is no computer in the apartment. We talked to Suarez about it, and he said they couldn’t afford one and that they would both use the ones at the library. So we checked that out, and it turns out that the library they go to is a free service one, so there is no logging of users. Dead end.”

Ryan nods and notes the new information on the board, drawing lines between things that seem to be related. “Brendon?”

“I had Zack run analyses on all the samples we pulled from Beckett’s house,” Brendon says. “I also put Patrick on going through Beckett’s call history and voicemail.”

“What did they find?”

“Well,” Brendon says, flipping through the contents of the thick file in front of him. “Zack found DNA from thirty-two different donors from the swabs, hair and fibre we bagged in Beckett’s bedroom. Thirty female, two male. The only sample matching anything we have on file came back to Gabriel Saporta, so that further confirms the lover link-up there. The information we got from Beckett’s journal before supports the story that Beckett broke off with Saporta because of a new relationship with another man. The DNA from the second male donor in Beckett’s bedroom matches the DNA from both crime scenes. I think we can safely assume that this profile belongs to the killer.”

“What about Alex Suarez?” Ryan asks, making more notes on the board.

“No match,” Brendon says. “I also verified his alibi with his supervisor at Wendy’s. He was at work when the Saportas were killed. He’s in the clear.”

“And the phone records?”

“Yeah, that’s a bit tricky,” Brendon says with a sigh. “Remember how I told you that Dr Beckett has a pretty hectic social life? Well, his phone confirms it. If you count both incoming and outgoing activity, there are over twelve hundred calls, voice mails and text messages in the last month. The guy must have practically lived with the phone attached to his ear. Patrick has started going through the list, but it’s slow progress, especially as a lot of the numbers so far have turned out to go to unregistered cell phones.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, capping the marker in his hand to indicate that the meeting is over. “Brendon, keep working on the call history and the journal. Spencer, I want you to go back to the hospital and see if you can get any more information out of the people working there. And Jon, talk to Suarez again. See if you can get the name of the charity that helped Saporta off the streets. We’re assuming that the killer learned about the Saporta siblings from Beckett, but it could be the other way around. We need to find out more about possible connections. I’ll check back in with Hurley for the final autopsy reports in the meantime. Back here for updates in—” Ryan checks his watch, “—six hours okay?”

“Yeah,” Jon says, getting out of his chair and gathering his scattered files. Spencer doesn’t follow, which is unusual. Ryan looks at Brendon, who quickly puts his things together as well and heads out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks. Spencer starts shuffling his papers around, putting everything into a careful pile.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Spencer looks up at him, blue eyes carefully emotionless as they stare Ryan down.

Okay then.

Spencer gathers his things and leaves. Ryan turns back to the board and wonders when his job became so fucking complicated.

***

**NOVEMBER 10**

“Lesson number one: cover your tracks,” Pete says when Patrick comes back to stand right in front of him next to the bed, a dark-green silk tie clasped in his hand. “There’s virtually no way not to leave trace behind, so you need to distract the investigation, make them look somewhere else.” He unbuttons his jeans as he speaks. Patrick’s eyes track the movement, heat rising in his cheeks.

“How soon will you be missed?” Pete asks, pushing the denim down over his hips and thighs together with his underwear. “Think about it, take your answer and then take off about twelve hours, because that’s how long you’re most likely to have. People worry early with kids your age.”

“My parents are in Chicago,” Patrick says. “Yearly pre-Christmas shopping weekend with some college friends. They won’t be back until Sunday.”

“And where are you supposed to be?”

“At home, watching TV, playing video games. Reading. Maybe heading over to a friend’s for pizza. The usual stuff. I programmed the phone to forward all calls to my cell. It’s always worked so far.”

Pete smiles, holds up his hands between them. “Sneaky,” he comments, sounding vaguely impressed. “I guess you have a bit of time then.” He presses the palms against one another, flexes his fingers before curling them into loose fists. “Take the tie,” Pete says. “Loose figure eights around the wrists. That’s lesson two: never leave marks, no matter how much you want to.”

Patrick nods and follows the instructions, fingers surprisingly steady as he wraps the fabric around Pete’s wrists. He receives a quick kiss when it’s done and tries not to stare too much as Pete sits down on the edge of the mattress and stretches out until he’s lying on his back on top of the tousled sheets with his arms above his head. Pete gestures upward with a small toss of head, and Patrick moves to the head of the bed, fumbles a bit with the handcuffs as he fastens them around Pete’s wrists and one of the horizontal wooden bars of the headboard

“Lesson number three: be aware of your motive,” Pete says as Patrick pulls back, and Patrick tries to make sense of the words from under the haze of heat and nerves and vaguely sickening anticipation. “Why do you want to touch me?”

“You’re naked,” Patrick states, cheeks burning as the words tumble from his mouth. “And you’re hot. And I’m sixteen. I’m a guy. I don’t know?”

“All very good reasons,” Pete agrees. “But how does wanting me now tie in with the ring on your finger?”

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“You sure about that?”

“Dammit, Pete! Would you just fucking shut up and let me grope you already?”

Pete’s eyes go from playful to serious, and Patrick feels the mood in the room change. Pete arches his back a little, arranges himself more comfortably on the bed and gives Patrick a smile that’s surprisingly pale coming from him.

“Go ahead,” he says. “No hands on my dick though. And I shower and change down at the station most days, so no hickies, okay?”

Patrick can only nod. His mouth is suddenly very dry, and swallowing doesn’t seem to be helping much.

He leans down, climbs over Pete’s legs, reaches out for a first touch. Pete’s skin is warm. Less smooth than Patrick’s own. Decorated with ink in various places. He wonders what it would feel like against his tongue, what someone as beautiful as Pete tastes like.

Only one way to find out.

Pete lets him explore without comments or directions, responding in hitched breaths and low moans that go straight down Patrick’s spine. He slides his hands over Pete’s hips, follows the muscle on the front of a lean leg before turning at the knee, caressing a path up the inside of Pete’s thigh.

“Hands off,” Pete groans, shifting his hips away from Patrick’s fingers. “I mean it, Patrick. No fucking handjobs.”

Patrick pulls back and tries not to look—but seriously? It’s not like it’s actually possible to _not_ notice how hard Pete is or how his hips seem to gravitate towards Patrick’s hands the second he lets go of his self-control and just loses himself in the moment. Patrick feels a hot ball of tension building in his chest, because Pete is so fucking beautiful like this, just completely open and transparent and somehow, inexplicably _his._ Patrick’s never had anyone wanting to share themselves with him before—just give their body and heart and soul over like it’s the easiest thing in the world. To be honest, he’s never actually had anyone that _he_ wanted to get that from either.

Pete looks at him from below half-closed eyelids, and Patrick feels the tension grow, settling in to press down on his lungs as he moves up Pete’s body and they kiss, deep and intense. 

Maybe it _is_ possible to fall half-way in love with someone in just a few weeks.

The thought leaves him shaking. And screw Pete and his games because Patrick _needs_ to know what it feels like to touch him. He kisses his way down the side of Pete’s ribs, glances up, keeps Pete distracted with fingers playing over the top of his stomach—waits until he sees Pete close his eyes and tilt his head back in a quiet moan.

“Fuck!” Pete’s hips arch off the bed. Patrick shifts his weight—tries to find a good way to keep Pete pinned down as he parts his lips a little more and drags them carefully over the swollen head. “Fuck, Patrick, oh God, Jesus, what are you?—holy _shit_ —God, Patrick, stopstopstop, oh _fuck_ , how—” 

Patrick goes deeper.

***

“You said no hands,” he hurries to say once it’s over, before Pete has managed to more than wet his lips. “So, no hands.”

“Fucking _cheater,_ ” Pete manages, and then he’s laughing, breathlessly and half-way to choking. Patrick joins him, slumping down next to Pete and shaking with him, head on Pete’s chest and arm gripping tightly at his waist as he tries to breathe through the laughter. Patrick’s pants feel really gross. He ignores it and wraps a leg around Pete’s anyway, holding on tightly as they gradually calm down together. There’s something about lying in Pete’s bed like this, breathing in the smell of _them_ and knowing that _this happened,_ that makes Patrick’s heart feel far too big in his chest. He curls himself completely around Pete’s warm body and tries not to think about how much he wishes he could just stay right where he is forever and never go back home again.

“Hey—cuffs,” Pete says, nudging at Patrick with his shoulder. “Come on, or my joints will be killing me tomorrow.” Patrick makes an annoyed sound of protest and nuzzles his face deeper into Pete’s neck. Pete shoves him again, as hard as he can with the limited freedom of movement. Patrick grudgingly obliges, climbing up on top of him to reach the keys on the bedside table.

Pete helps him out of his clothes and pulls up the covers. Patrick snuggles into him sleepily, fingers trailing mindless patterns on Pete’s chest as he drifts off.

“Jesus, how are you even real?” he hears Pete murmur against his hair, arms gripping Patrick’s body so tight it almost hurts.

It’s kind of an awesome way to fall asleep.


	3. Charity

_DAY 15 – 9:00 PM_

Zack likes to think that he has a pretty good picture of what goes on at the lab. Being a tech means that nobody really pays much attention to him. He's a function—a necessary function, and people are always nice enough—but he's not really part of the investigating team. The CSI's come to him with evidence they need analysed, and he hands them back with matching suspects. The job in itself is interesting enough, and when he doesn't have his hands full, he can watch his colleagues, which is often highly entertaining.

Right now, he's watching a new episode of the never-ending Ryan Ross–Brendon Urie show, half-hidden behind his computer screen, pretending to be paying rapt attention to how the progress bar slowly creeps up to 100% on his latest search. If you ask Zack, Ross and Urie have known each other for about six years, been ridiculously, stupidly in love for approximately a nanosecond less than that and tried to suppress and deny it for just as long. At the moment, they are “doing a reconstruction” of an unsolved murder case that’s just been picked back up. If having your throat slashed and bleeding out in your bed is anything like the scene those two are creating, Zack doubts that the victim put up much of a fight.

“So how would you get this kind of blood pattern, do you think?”

Big brown eyes looking up into honeyed ones. Pure romance novel material.

“The killer probably had to hold her down. Pinning the wrists over her head. Something like this.”

Zack is genuinely impressed by Ross's monotone sometimes. Judging by the way Urie's breathing visibly speeds up, he doesn't have much problem with it either.

“Um-hum.”

Shaky nod and lip-bite. Seriously? _Lip-bite?_

“A little closer, though, I think. There's supposed to be a void between her legs. Like a thigh pressing up?”

More laboured breathing. Zack resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, you're right. Twist your hips?”

The computer pings, and Zack goes back to cross-referencing databases, doing what he can to keep the widening grin off his face.

The rest of the team is hardly any better. Smith and Walker have their own little courting scheme going, dancing around each other with too long looks and thinly veiled innuendo. That game got really interesting recently, when it turned out that Walker had got himself stone drunk and married a cocktail waitress. Spencer Smith is impressive to watch when he's angry.

And then there's the new tech. Zack hasn't really figured out what that guy is all about yet. Patrick Vaughn Stump is quietly funny, street smart in a way that Zack wouldn't have expected from the son of the friggin' Undersheriff and intensely private without being rude. He's also an arrogant little fucker who thinks he knows a lot more about the world than most people his age (more than most people period, to be honest), and as an additional bonus, little Patrick is driving the Head Detective on the night shift slowly around the bend, even though Zack can tell that Wentz is doing everything he can to keep people from noticing

Basically, Zack works in a daytime soap opera.

Not that he minds.

***

**NOVEMBER 15**

_u wanna hang out after school? - p_

He sends the message to Patrick in the early afternoon and busies himself with watering the half-dead plants around his apartment while waiting for his phone to buzz.

_Sure. What do you want to do?_

Such a seemingly innocent question. Pete can practically see Patrick smile evilly when typing it.

_u up 4 sm exrcise?_

Pete knows how to be evil too. This time, the phone buzzes nearly instantly with Patrick’s reply.

_How about baseball? I do a mean pitch._

Pete laughs out loud. Text messaging _is_ actually sexy. Who would have thought?

 _hudson/7th @ 4. c u thr,_ he sends, putting his phone back in his pocket. It’s almost two hours until then. Pete figures he has time to do the dishes as well.

***

“You know, when you said 'exercise', I didn't think you were actually _serious_ ,” Patrick says, giving Pete a look that’s half-petulant, half-amused.

“Really?” Pete replies, doing his best to sound honestly confused. “What did you think I meant?”

Patrick just laughs and takes the offered racquet, swatting Pete hard on the top of the thigh before disappearing to the other side of the court. “You’re on, asshole. Serve the ball.” He looks fantastic. It’s quite possible that Pete will never allow Patrick to wear his own clothes ever again, seeing how well Pete’s shorts and t-shirt cling to his body. Pete twirls the tennis racquet in his hand, moving back to the base line, considering where to place the first ball. He deliberately chose a white shirt for Patrick. He intends to make him run.

The game is fast-paced and fun. Patrick is better than Pete would have guessed. All the hours spent with his parents at the country club have obviously paid off. Patrick does his best to beat Pete into the ground, and Pete ends up running all over the court, batting back one ball after the other.

“Come on, Pete, hit it _harder,_ ” Patrick calls from the other side of the net. Pete misses a ball.

He looks up at Patrick right as another ball is thrown into the air. Patrick is flushed and bright-eyed, stretching up to get a good hit and biting his lip in concentration. Their eyes meet right after Patrick’s racquet makes contact with the tennis ball, and the look in Patrick’s eyes kind of makes Pete’s knees go weak.

The ball bounces off the ground. Pete doesn’t give a fuck.

Patrick serves a third time, and Pete somehow manages to hit the ball back. They battle it out over the last few games, and with every point won or lost, the anticipation builds a little higher.

Patrick wins in the end—with the measly margin of 6-4 in the last set. Pete is normally a very sore loser, but somehow, it doesn’t feel so bad this time.

“Good game,” he says holding out his hand for Patrick to shake. Patrick’s fingers are hot in his, and it takes all of Pete’s willpower not to push Patrick up against the wall of the tunnel leading towards the changing rooms as they walk off the court.

“Yeah,” Patrick echoes breathlessly, hand still clasping Pete’s tightly. “Good game.”

***

_DAY 21 – EVENING_

Ryan comes into the autopsy room just as Dr Hurley is finishing up with his most recent client (as he insists on calling them). He still has a scalpel in his hand, using it as a drumstick against the metal of the examination table while Converge’s _Jane Doe_ blares from the speakers.

“Good song. Very appropriate.”

Andy looks up at him, still keeping a steady rhythm of metal to metal.

“Sarcasm and monotone. You really like to keep people on their toes, don’t you, Ross?”

“How about we skip the part where you pretend that you’re actually a rockstar and get to the part where you give me some facts for my investigation?”

Hurley rolls his eyes but puts down the scalpel, taking up a battered clipboard instead.

“Time of death, approximately fourteen hours ago,” he says. “COD yet unknown; I haven’t got the tox screen back from Zack yet. It looks like poisoning is likely though. The victim has one fading contusion at the top of her left hip. Looks like she either got into a fight with a small picket fence or she bumped into a table. I don’t think it has anything to do with the killer.”

“Anything else?”

“Not much. Stomach content was normal. No signs of drug abuse. No other marks anywhere. Perfect nails—I don’t think she struggled. Overall, a very healthy, well-cared for girl.”

“Apart from being dead.”

“Well, yeah, there is that.”

Dr Hurley flips through the notes on the clipboard, stopping when he comes to the second to last page. “Actually, there was one more thing. Her legs.”

“What about them?”

“Here, feel for yourself,” Andy says, grabbing one of Ryan’s hands and placing it against the victim’s calf. “See how smooth the skin is? Not even a hint of stubble. She must have shaved them not very long before she died.”

“So what are you saying?”

“It’s fall, Ross,” Andy says, eyebrow raised. “Bikini season is over, which means that women shave their legs for two reasons: work—if they’re in the entertainment industry—and dating. So either you have a showgirl on your hands—and let’s be honest, those legs make a pretty good case for that—or you’re dealing with a Black Widow-type killer.”

Ryan nods thoughtfully. Dr Hurley signs off the autopsy report and hands it over.

“Well, she’s all yours,” he says pleasantly. “I need to run. Carden’s team just found a body in a dumpster that looks like an extra from _The Texas Chainsaw Massacre_.” He pulls off his scrubs and stuffs them in the garbage can next to the door. “Let me know when you get the next one in.”

“I’m hoping there won’t be a next one,” Ryan says tersely. Andy just smiles.

“Well, then you’d better tell Wentz to get the little cartoon hearts out of his eyes and work faster.”

The door swings closed behind him, leaving Ryan staring into the empty room with a nonplussed expression on his face, wondering what the hell that was all about.

***

**DECEMBER 4**

They pretty much crash into Pete’s apartment. It’s not normal. Usually, Pete goes in first and Patrick joins him a little later. The apartment complex is huge, and nobody knows or cares who lives where, even on the same floor, but Pete prefers to be safe rather than sorry. Today, they somehow forget about that.

“You’re sweaty,” Patrick murmurs against Pete’s neck, pressing Pete back against the wall in the small hallway and kissing his way up the underside of Pete’s jaw. “Salty.”

They’re both soaked. The second time playing each other was more intense than the first; the third time even worse. Today, Pete is surprised they didn’t end up breaking at least a couple of racquets from how hard they were both hitting the ball on the tennis court.

“Shower?”

“God, yes.”

Pete tugs at Patrick’s clothes, leading them both stumbling towards the bathroom. The shower is too small for two people to fit inside comfortably. Pete kind of doesn’t care.

He pulls Patrick under the spray, kissing him again as soon as they manage to get the glass door shut. It’s the first time they’ve both been completely naked together, and the feel of skin on skin makes Pete’s head go a little crazy. He takes the soap and starts running it over Patrick’s chest and arms, squeezing his eyes firmly shut when Patrick moans and leans his head back into the hot water. Pete is so hard he’s teetering on the edge between painfully aroused and just in pain, but still his whole system somehow goes into shock when Patrick suddenly shifts a little, presses closer, and… there’s another dick rubbing against Pete’s. _Patrick’s_ dick, which should make the sensation a lot less intimidating, but… still… there’s a _naked penis_ pressing against Pete’s body. _Holy shitshitshitshitshit…_

Pete tries to breathe. Then he tries to swallow. Then he decides to just take his whole pathetic gay freak-out by the throat and face it like a man. He opens his eyes, tries to focus while his pulse is racing at two hundred miles per hour.

Patrick is getting to his knees, sinking down along Pete’s body, head tilted up and eyes wide. He doesn’t even look scared.

“I want you,” Patrick says, and the words are breathless but sure, like he actually does know exactly what he wants. Like losing your virginity to a guy in a cramped shower is really that simple.

Pete starts to hyperventilate. _Fuck,_ the look on Patrick’s face is enough to make an angel lose every kind of self-control, and Pete is definitely not in that league. Patrick soaps up his hands, wraps one of them around Pete’s cock and starts stroking slowly. Pete jerks back so violently, he nearly cracks a couple of tiles on the wall.

“Patrick, stop. Not like this. _God._ ”

Patrick hesitates. The hand around Pete loosens for a few seconds. Then the stroking picks up again, slicking Pete up, moving a little faster now.

“I don’t care, Pete. Please. I really, really, really don’t care right now.”

Pete manages some kind of broken moan that doesn’t sound nearly enough like a ‘no’ to be convincing. He shifts his weight instead, moving to stand directly underneath the showerhead. The soap washes away quickly, disappearing down the drain.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Patrick snaps, somewhere between angry and just very confused. Pete desperately tries to come up with something a little more dignified than _I’ve actually never done the big S.E.X. with a guy before and the whole two-dicks thing is freaking me out._

And there is no earthly reason why _that_ should even be a problem. Pete isn’t a homophobe. He likes kissing guys. He’s all for the big gay sex. Seriously, it looks hot. Pete has seen it on YouTube.

Shit.

This is one of the reasons why Pete _hates_ being almost thirty. People expect you to _know_ things, have all the relevant experience and all the mad skills.

Pete has no mad skills in this area. He is so completely out of his depth that he doesn’t even see land anymore. Not that Patrick would know that with the way Pete’s mouth has been going off in its patented fake-it-till-you-make-it routine since the moment they met.

It worries Pete slightly that he’s apparently become so good at faking confidence that he’s not even aware that he’s doing it anymore.

_Fuck._

“I already told you,” he tries, and it sounds unconvincing even to his own ears. “I don’t want just sex. I want forever.”

“Dammit, Pete, will you stop being such a girl about this?”

Pete grabs Patrick’s wrist and pulls the hand away, more harshly than he meant to.

“As opposed to what? A self-absorbed teenager who wants to screw someone over because he’s having a sudden hormone peak?”

“Are you insane? Didn’t you _hear_ me just now? I _want_ you to fuck me, Pete. I’ve wanted it since you kissed me that first time.”

“Not enough.”

“Would it help if I told you I was falling in love with you?”

Pete freezes. He steps back quickly, out of reach. He knows his eyes are empty when he looks down at Patrick, but his entire body feels like it just turned to stone. Patrick’s question echoes in the small bathroom, growing in volume instead of fading until Pete can’t stand it anymore.

“Get out.”

“What?”

“Get the fuck out of the shower!”

Patrick flinches. He closes his eyes for a while, as though he’s counting down from ten. When he looks back up, Pete finally sees fear there. It’s not nearly as present as the overlaying determination, though.

“Would it matter?” Patrick repeats. “Because I think I might be. I mean, I think about you all the time.”

“Patrick…”

“And we totally already had sex, so what’s the big deal?”

“It’s not the same. I don’t give a shit about what your Sex Ed teacher told you. Getting someone off with your mouth is not the same as having them fuck you.”

At least it’s not in Pete’s screwed-up head. Not that he’s ever actually had a dick up his ass. Or in his mouth for that matter. And he _knows_ he’s being a total jerk—Patrick is _on his knees_ for Christ’s sake, and what Pete is doing right now can only be seen as rejection, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to make Patrick think that he— _fuck!_

“I want you to fuck me,” Patrick breathes, reaching up a little higher, grabbing hold of Pete’s wrist and pulling him back under the shower spray. Patrick shakes water out of his face and leans forward, pressing his mouth—oh God, Patrick’s _mouth_ —to the edge of the tattoo on the lower part of Pete’s stomach. “I want to lick and suck you until you’re all wet and leaking and have you push me down on your bed, have me choking on the pillows while you press inside, and—”

“Are you even listening to yourself?” Pete interrupts frantically. He has to. The discomfort at the back of his mind is growing steadily, and it’s probably the greatest irony in the history of the world, but he’s just not ready to go there yet. “You talk like we’ve been lovers for years, like you know exactly how everything feels, what you like, what you want. And you fucking don’t, okay? And you shouldn’t pretend that you do, because that’s just another form of lying. And I’ve done lying. Last relationship I was in? We were lying to each other for over three years. And it starts in bed, because it’s so easy there. And then it spreads into the rest of your lives, until you’re lying about everything and using ‘I love you’ as some kind of empty apology.”

 _Fucking hypocrite,_ his mind sing-songs. Pete wholeheartedly agrees.

“I’m not lying.”

“Patrick, please…”

“I’m not.”

The words are so soft that Pete scarcely hears them over the sound of water hitting the bathroom floor. Patrick’s hands move to Pete’s hips, making circles over Pete’s stomach and thighs before he leans in and traces the path with his tongue. Pete feels his body start to shake.

“Patrick. One hundred percent no joke, right now: If you put those gorgeous lips of yours around my cock, we are fucking over.”

Patrick doesn’t even look up, just drags his hands up and down the insides of Pete’s thighs. “You don’t mean that.”

“Normally, I’d say ‘try me,’ but I’m scared to death that you will.” His voice breaks on the last word, and this seems to pull Patrick out of whatever haze he’s been in.

“You’re serious.” Patrick sounds utterly shocked. Pete can’t exactly blame him. He shuts off the water and staggers out the door, grabbing a towel and starting to dry himself off.

“You can sleep on the couch if you want. I’m going to head down to the station and catch up on some paperwork.”

He needs to get out. Clear his head. Find out why he’s suddenly something he doesn’t even recognise. He needs to fix this, and he needs to be able to think again. _Shit!_

“What the fuck is wrong with you!” Patrick breaks through the bedroom door as Pete is struggling with his jeans. He looks scared and worried and angry all at the same time. “Is this what you’re really like? A controlling asshole who gets off on fucking with people’s heads?”

Pete puts on a pair of socks, looks in the closet for a clean shirt.

“Are you seeing someone else?” Patrick demands. “Is that what this is about? Or did you suddenly grow a conscience and decide I was too young?”

There’s a green shirt that looks almost like it has been ironed recently. Pete puts it on, does up the row of buttons.

“I should have known it was all bullshit!” Patrick shouts. “Of course it was! What a _pathetic_ line, ‘I want to marry you.’ I can’t _believe_ I actually thought you meant it for a minute. You’re such a piece of _shit!_ ”

Pete swallows thickly to keep himself from lashing out. He reaches into a drawer in his dresser, pulls out a velvet box. He drops it in Patrick’s hands without a word and stumbles out of the apartment. He doesn’t stop to see Patrick open the box and find the ring inside, doesn’t turn back when Patrick calls his name after he reads the inscription.

He makes the drive to the station in record time. There’s a new murder case on his desk. Pete has never been so grateful for a double homicide in his life.

***

_DAY 22 – A LITTLE AFTER MIDNIGHT_

“What do we have?”

Ross looks as though he already knows the answer. Zack turns around to pick up the printouts from the tray.

“Prints on the altar and some of the candle holders consistent with the prints from the other two scenes. DNA is the same as well. Still no match in any of the databases. Sorry.”

“Any information on the victim?”

“Victoria Asher, arrested two years ago for theft. Prints are in the system. Sentenced to a hundred and fifty hours of community service. Picked up by Vice for questioning a couple of times after that.”

“Prostitute?”

“Stripper. One of the really classy places next to Caesar’s Palace. According to what I found Vice did a big cocaine bust there less than a month ago. Case’s still open.”

Ryan nods. “Who’s handling it?”

“Detective Leighton Meester. You know who she is?”

“Not really, but Wentz probably does. What about the ring?”

“Same kind as the other two. Plain 18k gold-plated, same stamps. Inscription seems to have been done by the same place. Urie asked me to run a search for Internet stores that carry rings like these.” Zack takes out a file from his drawer of ongoing analysis, hands it over. “According to the stamps inside, these were made by a company called Eastern Gems, based in Hong Kong. They state on their homepage that they sell over twenty-two million items per year all over the world. This ring is their article #549826. Retails for around thirty bucks. It's currently number eight on their top ten best-selling list. The overview of retailers, physical and Internet-based, is in the file as well.”

The list in question is about thirty pages. Ross scans through the first three or so before closing the file and walking off with a nod.

Zack watches the glass door to one of the investigation boardrooms close behind him. Smith and Walker are putting up pictures on the presentation wall. It's a real pretty girl this time. Gorgeous face, dark hair. Even dead she looks somehow above it all, like even death doesn't really concern her.

Zack can definitely see the appeal.

***

**DECEMBER – ADVENT**

Pete doesn’t call him the next day, or the day after or any day in the two weeks after that. It sucks. A lot. And even worse is the feeling Patrick gets that he’s kind of just floating around, waiting for something. It shouldn’t reasonably be this hard to just go back to his regular life. He’s only known Pete for a month and a half, and Patrick can count the times they’ve seen each other on fewer than two hands.

And still.

He misses Pete like crazy, and it makes him furious, because Patrick is not a person who misses things. He always gets what he wants or resolves not to care about it anyway, and this time, it’s. Not. Working.

He knows he’s not hiding it very well, and that worries him too. Pete never told him what character trait it was that made him smile at the thought of Patrick as a criminal mastermind, but maybe Patrick knows the answer to that now, anyway. Then again—does it matter if he’s maybe a little too proud and arrogant? It’s not like Pete is any better.

And Patrick wants him anyway.

(Maybe he should add ‘obviously insane’ to the list.)

His mom has started to hover around him, the way she does when her formidable mom-instincts sense that something is off. Patrick does his best to reassure her, all smiles and good appetite and perfect grades. It’s not working as well as he needs it to.

***

**DECEMBER 17**

_I’m sorry, ok?_

Pete reads the message about thirty times before finally pressing 'delete'.

***

**DECEMBER 20**

It’s five days till Christmas. Pete still hasn’t called or answered any of the messages Patrick caved and sent off after the second week of compact silence. Patrick is sitting at the piano in the dining room, letting his fingers just randomly wander across the keys. There’s a melody hiding just out of reach in his head, and he’s just started to finally get a good grip on it when his mom’s soft voice interrupts him.

“I like this song. It’s very pretty.”

She’s in her dressing gown, with a cup of tea in her hands, giving him that warm and calming mom-smile that always makes Patrick feel a little better about the world in general.

“I’m sorry, am I keeping you up?”

“No, I was just getting some tea. Your dad should be home soon. His flight got in about an hour ago. I thought I’d wait up for him.”

Patrick nods and resumes playing. The melody is stronger now, and he’s surprised by how _hopeful_ it sounds—all lilting scales and pure harmonies; it doesn’t match his mood at all.

“I haven’t heard you play in a long time.”

It sounds like a Question—capital Q and all. Patrick feels his muscles tense up and tries to take steady, normal breaths. (Nothing to see, move along now.)

“I just haven’t really felt like it.”

Patricia Vaughn Stump walks closer and puts the cup of tea down on a coaster in one of the deep window sills. She sits down next to Patrick, who automatically scoots over to give her room.

“What is this one about, then?” she asks, joining her fingers to Patrick’s on the keys.

Patrick shrugs and closes his eyes, lets the notes just flow through him. The melody is coming through stronger, so he adds more of a tempo, smiling in spite of himself when his mom catches on and plays counter-harmonies on the high notes. It’s been far too long since they’ve done this.

 _“Oh, Lord, lead me safely through the darkness,”_ Patricia sings softly, fingers picking up the familiar song from the last chord of their mostly-finished composition. It’s her way of not asking while still trying to offer advice. Patrick nods and joins in on a harmony a third below, feeling the words go right through him the way they always do. The two of them sing their way through a few more hymns, and it’s achingly familiar, and so, so very nice. Patrick catches himself thinking that maybe he’s been missing his mom a little too.

***

_DAY 23 – 11:20 PM_

Ryan is standing in the main boardroom, staring at the pictures from the different crime scenes, going over each beautiful face in a loop until he feels as though he could draw them all from memory.

“We’re missing something,” he mumbles, passing from Beckett to Asher and back again. “There should be a link here. What is it that we’re missing?”

Brendon comes up behind him, a cup of coffee in either hand. Ryan takes the right one, and they continue the loop together, side by side.

“Go over the part with the rings again,” Brendon says. “They have to be important.”

Ryan reaches out and touches the edge of one row of photos—three gold bands blown up to ten times their normal size. Kindness. Patience. Charity. They’ve gone over them at least a dozen times by now.

“Love is patient, love is kind. The greatest of all is charity. First Corinthians. It’s such an obvious link, but I still can’t help but feel that something is not quite right.”

“I thought the greatest of all was love?” Brendon replies. It doesn’t quite sound like a question. At least not about the case.

“Same thing,” Ryan says with a shrug. “Love, charity—it’s just a matter of translation.”

“So what does the rest of it say?”

“What, the First Corinthians?”

“Yeah. Maybe there’s something else in there.”

Ryan nods. Thinks. It’s been a long time since he actually read the passage in question, but things he reads tend to stay in his mind; it’s just a matter of bringing them back to the surface.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It wants not, boasts not, isn’t proud… It’s not rude, self-seeking or angry. It keeps no record of wrong, doesn’t delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects and trusts, and hopes and perseveres. It’s greater than faith. And greater than hope.”

“So,” Brendon says, voice weaker than usual. “Love is everything, huh?”

He looks up when he says it. Ryan quickly turns his eyes back to his coffee cup.

“It’s worship. Man’s direct connection to God. This is the kind of love that comes from everything inside you.”

Fantastic choice of words to try and steer the conversation out of dangerous waters. Ryan is proud of himself.

“What about down on earth?” Brendon asks.

Ryan smiles, keeps his head down. “I’m not a theologian.”

“But you’re a man.”

Brendon moves even closer. Carefully—as though he’s expecting Ryan to pull back at any moment.

Ryan should. And he will. Any second now.

Brendon puts his hand on top of Ryan’s against the wall. And ‘any second now’ doesn’t make much sense anymore, because just like Ryan, time doesn’t seem to be moving.

“If I don’t want or boast or cling to my pride, then I’m humble, right?” Brendon says, moving his hand slowly across Ryan’s fingers. “And if I’m not rude or angry, then I’m showing restraint. What’s another word for that?”

Ryan searches his brain. It’s not working as well as it usually does.

“Um… abstention? Moderation? Temperance? Hey—wait. Wait…” Ryan walks over to the whiteboard, starts writing a list of words in curving, black letters.

Kindness  
Patience  
Charity  
Temperance  
Chastity  
Humility  
Diligence

“The seven heavenly virtues,” he says, a feeling of accomplishment surging through him. “They’re the counterpoints to the deadly sins. And not nearly as well known.”

Brendon smiles thinly in recognition of the joke. The tension in the room slowly fades. By the time Jon and Spencer come back (still not talking if the angry blush on Spencer’s neck is anything to go by) Ryan is almost able to convince himself that nothing really happened.


	4. Humility

_DAY 24 – 2:55 AM_

“So, that ring you’re wearing, what does it mean?” Brendon asks between bites of his veggie burger, nodding his head in the direction of Patrick’s left hand.

Patrick looks up from his coffee and sends Brendon a questioning look over the brim of his cup.

“I thought that would be pretty obvious.”

“Well, I can see that it's a purity ring,” Brendon says. “But what does it mean to you?”

He doesn't know why he's asking exactly. It's really none of his business. But there's something nagging at the back of his head whenever he looks at Patrick—as though Brendon is missing a huge and glaring piece of evidence; it makes him uncomfortable.

Patrick looks at him intently, as though sizing Brendon up, deciding what version of the truth he will get to hear. “Some things are worth waiting for,” he says finally. “Having this reminds me of that.”

Brendon turns the words in his head, opens his mouth to ask another question. The sound of the door opening makes him hesitate, and they watch together as Ryan Ross crosses the room to put a beaker of something extremely suspicious-looking in the community fridge.

“And sometimes, you need to know when you've waited long enough,” Patrick says with a small smile, gathering up his things and leaving the room.

Brendon watches Ryan through the corner of his eye and thinks that _yeah, maybe you do._

***

**DECEMBER 24**

Midnight Mass.

For sixteen years, Christmas Eve has been Patrick’s favourite time of the year. The music is beautiful and everyone is filled with hope. Patrick likes to watch people enter the cathedral. If you look closely enough, it’s as though you can see the stress of visiting relatives, buying countless Christmas presents and preparing a turkey big enough to feed an army just melt away from people’s faces.

Today, he doesn’t look.

What’s the point, really?

He volunteers to help with communion since there will be several hundred people more than on a normal Sunday and he already did the required training the year before when one of the deacons broke his leg in a car accident. The choir starts at the back of the church for procession as usual, and Patrick keeps his eyes firmly on one of the angels in the stained glass window above the altar as he walks down the aisle.

He keeps his eyes on the conductor when he sings and on the priest when he doesn’t until about half-way through the service. One of the deacons is reading the Gospel of Lucas, same as Patrick’s dad does every Christmas morning before they leave for the obligatory spend-time-with-all-relatives-within-a-fifty-miles-radius round. Patrick can’t help the smile that spreads on his lips. He turns his head a little, looking through the first lines of faces. He sees his mom, who smiles back, and then his dad, who is tilting his head to make a quiet comment to the person next to him.

Pete's back.

Patrick turns his head to focus on the man reading, because he doesn’t know what would show on his face if he kept looking towards the front pews. And he doesn’t want to make a big deal about Pete being there if it turns out he’s there for any of the normal reasons to why a person would want to go to Midnight Mass at Christmas. Seeing as he’s sitting with Patrick’s parents, it’s pretty likely that it wasn’t even Pete’s idea to begin with.

During prayer, he chances another look out of the corner of his eye. His parents both have their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Pete is mimicking their stance, but his gaze is not on the joined hands in his lap.

Patrick’s eyes begin to sting. There is too much meaning in Pete’s eyes—and maybe it’s the weeks apart or the fight they had or the sum total of the painful, introspective moods Patrick has been going through lately, but sitting there on the choir bench, Patrick can’t feel anything but crushing hope and a need so strong it chokes him.

Looking at Pete now, Patrick doesn’t know how he could ever have doubted him.

He half-expects to completely fuck up his solo of _Ave Maria_ a few minutes later. Everything inside him is just jumbled and turned upside-down, and he doesn’t even feel most of his body as he walks up to the solo stand. Fearing the worst, he closes his eyes, lets everything just surge through him and opens his mouth.

He’s never made the piece sound like _that_ before.

Patrick knows about transcendence; he’s brushed the edges of it often enough to recognise the feeling of light coursing through his body, stripping the world away. What he’s felt before doesn’t even come close to what he experiences when he sings the first line now, though. Patrick barely registers what comes out of his mouth, just knows that it’s _right_ and something much larger than perfection. There is light inside him pushing the notes out, making the low ones burn and the high ones soar towards the vaulted ceiling. He doesn’t notice the wetness in his eyes until he tries to look at his mom and can’t see her as anything more than a blurry splotch of colour in the dark pew. His vision clears with a few blinks, and Patrick sees that his mom is teary-eyed too. He meets his dad’s eyes next, soaks up the glowing pride there, and tilts his head back, letting the light and music take him over completely. He doesn’t look at Pete. He doesn’t need to. Pete is already with him.

It will be alright.

The gratitude is overwhelming. So is the sense of humility and reverence. Patrick keeps his eyes closed once the last note dies from his throat, mumbles a heartfelt _thank you_ and barely notices as the whole room bursts into spontaneous applause.

The people closest to him in the choir pat him on the arm or do thumbs-up when he gets back. The conductor is beaming like a small sun just fell down and settled on his face. Patrick runs a thumb under his eyes quickly and tries to smile. He can still feel the light linger on his skin. Or maybe it’s just Pete’s eyes now.

Things will be alright.

The feeling stays with him as he holds up his hands to receive the silver goblet of wine from Father Francis and goes to stand at the edge of the altar circle. Both his parents pick different lines, and Patrick is relieved, because there is no way he could keep everything he feels out of his eyes when Pete kneels before him. Patrick tilts the cup to his lips, says the right words. Pete’s eyes meet his over the brim, and the world rights itself.

***

They get a moment alone together in the commotion that is well-wishing and networking when everyone is exiting the church. Pete walks up to him, words carefully quiet as they walk down the steps, side by side.

“If we’re wrong about this and I lose you, I’d rather never have had you,” Pete says. “I don’t want to be able to remember being all the way inside you if I can’t have it for the rest of my life.”

Patrick looks up, nods. Pete only lets their eyes lock together for a second or two before dropping his head. Too many people. Always too many people.

“I want to wait,” Pete says, and Patrick can see the slight tremble in his smile now. “I—I just—I’m not too used to the whole—you know—guy thing either, and we’ll do other stuff, just not… that, okay?”

“Okay.”

It’s not even hard to say. Not with the promise of forever still running strong and bright inside him. He gives Pete a smile and turns around to look for his parents.

Their hands brush briefly as they move together out of the area in front of the cathedral, making Patrick’s heart skip a beat or two as they cross into the parking lot.

It’s Christmas. Everything is new.

***

_DAY 24 – 7:00 PM_

“Okay, so as you all know, we now have four victims,” Ryan says, going over the information on the walls. “William Beckett, Gabriel Saporta and Victoria Asher were killed with the same MO. The fourth victim, Hannah Saporta, we believe to be collateral damage. She was killed with the same poison as the other three, but was not arranged in the same way and not given a ring. According to the evidence, she was suffering from depression, had tried to commit suicide several times and was completely dependent on her brother. We’re likely looking at a _coup de grace_ where she’s concerned.”

He hands a pile of photos to Pete together with a thick file of autopsy reports. Pete puts them to the side for the moment, nodding for Ryan to go on.

“Each victim was given a wedding ring with an inscription of one of the heavenly virtues inside. Beckett’s was ‘kindness,’ Saporta’s ‘patience’ and Asher’s ‘charity.’ I think we can now safely conclude that we are dealing with a serial killer and that we are likely to see the other four virtues play out as murders as well, unless we can find him before this happens.”

Brendon fidgets in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. Spencer turns on the projector, taking over from Ryan to go through the details from the different locations and the specifics on the rings.

“We believe the killer to be a man, based on DNA samples at the scenes,” Ryan continues once Spencer’s presentation is done. “We believe him to have been in an intimate relationship with Beckett, based on semen splatters on the victim’s lower abdomen and evidence of light bruising consistent with consensual anal intercourse. We also believe him to have known the Saporta siblings well enough to have cared about them. Evidence from interviews points to a previous relationship between Gabriel Saporta and Beckett, which might have overlapped with Beckett’s relationship with the killer. That, we don’t know. There are no known ties between the first three victims and Victoria Asher at this point.”

“COD in all four cases was heart failure due to overdose. Tox screen showed high levels of tropane alkaloids _scopolamine_ and _atropine,_ as well as high doses of morphine. Based on the evidence at the Saporta scene, we believe that the toxin was derived from the Brugmanesia plant, more commonly known as 'angel’s trumpet'. It is a member of the nightshade family, just like mandrake, deadly nightshade and belladonna, very toxic and easy to get hold of. Hannah Saporta was found with flowers from this plant woven into her hair. Toxin derived from these flowers match the toxins in the victims’ blood.”

“Do you have any theories about motive?” Pete asks, flipping through a pile of pictures with practised movements.

Ryan glances at Spencer and then turns back to the board. “We think that he might be trying to make angels,” he says, and Pete nods. “There is nothing in the evidence to really suggest that the killer is following a specific religious ritual, but the dress, the flower toxin, the rings and the fact that he kills them in a way that is both painless and physically unaltering points at reverence.”

“Okay,” Pete says. “Thanks for the update. I’ll head back to the strip club where Asher worked. See if I can shake up some more information. Meanwhile, who is doing the reconstruction of the production-company-executive-who-raped-and-killed-his-secretary case at the Palace later tonight?”

“I am,” Spencer says. “With Ryan, I think.”

“Could you maybe switch that around?” Pete asks. “I kind of need Ross to go over the tapes for the Parker murder from last month again. The case is still open and getting colder by the day.”

“Sure,” Ryan says. “Jon, could you fill in? I know you’re technically supposed to clock off for tonight, but this is kind of important.”

Jon looks at Spencer, an unreadable expression on his face. Spencer looks back, and they both seem to falter for a second, as though they don’t know what’s supposed to happen next. “Yeah,” Jon says finally, clearing his throat when the word comes out rough and raspy. “No problem. I can do that.”

***

_DAY 24 – 10:30 PM_

“Anything new?” Ryan asks as he walks into the Ballistics Lab after finishing up with his reports for the evening.

Brendon looks up from a tank of brightly-coloured rubber balls and shakes his head.

“Bullet doesn’t match anything we have on file. How are you doing with the angel murders?”

“We pulled some more files from Dr Beckett’s computer. It looks like he was the one supplying the killer with morphine, thinking it was for some close relative in pain from cancer or something. Pretty ironic when you think about it.”

Brendon puts down the gun he’s tested and returns it to the evidence box. He looks up, and their eyes meet. The familiar sense of being locked in a single moment settles over Ryan’s chest, burning there, hot and bright. He takes a deep breath and prepares to look away, dispel the tension with some kind of flippant comment. Brendon is faster.

“Ryan, can I ask you something?”

“Um… sure, yeah.”

“How long is long enough?”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Brendon says, taking a step closer and crowding Ryan against a battered desk, sliding both hands into Ryan’s hair and holding him still while he leans in and brushes their lips together. “I mean this.”

***

_DAY 24 – 10:35 PM_

Pete had been on his way to Archives to collect copies of the photos from the Victoria Asher case, so really, walking through the dark corridor and stopping suddenly by the door to the Ballistics Lab was purely accidental.

The fact that he remains there, still and silent so as not to give himself away to the people inside, is maybe slightly more difficult to explain.

The crack in the door is wide enough to show a perfect, dimly-lit cut-out of Brendon Urie grabbing Ryan Ross’s hips and hoisting him up on a desk before going back in for more kisses. There are virtually no sounds in the room except for lips coming together and the clink of metal as belts are opened and zippers pulled down. It’s like an old Hollywood movie—everything beautifully choreographed in muted black and white.

“It’s rude to spy on people, you know.”

Pete doesn’t jump, but his heart stops for a second before his brain registers the voice in his ear. Patrick slides an arm causally around his waist, moving in close enough to put his chin on Pete’s shoulder.

“They are really beautiful together,” Patrick says, and Pete can only nod, because, yes, they really are. There is something extremely intimate about the way Brendon leans forward on straight arms, eyes closed and mouth sort of just mindlessly wandering over Ryan’s cheek.

“We would eclipse them.” The words end up rolling off Pete’s lips on a breath, and before he can say something more to make them… something else—he doesn’t really know what—Patrick leans in and presses a warm mouth to his ear.

“Could you really be that quiet, though?”

There are moments like this that Pete is fully able to simultaneously grasp concepts like ‘denial,’ ‘double-think’ and ‘eternal hope.’ He turns his head and nods. Patrick has a bit of red in his cheeks.

Pete can feel Patrick’s fingers tighten around him He doesn’t move for a long time, just returns his attention to the opening in the door. Brendon Urie has a really nice back.

“One sound and I’ll stop.”

Pete drops his head a little to the side. Patrick’s lips brush across the skin, travelling smoothly over the sensitive spots, careful not to leave marks. Pete lets his mouth fall open to take in long, silent breaths. In the next room, Ryan leans back against the desk, pulling Brendon up on top of him.

Patrick’s right hand inches its way under Pete’s shirt.

“God, Patrick…”

It’s no more than a whisper, and yet, it’s far too much.

“Told you so,” Patrick says quietly in Pete’s ear, and then the warm pressure is gone. Pete listens to the soft shuffle of sneakers fading into silence as Patrick disappears down the empty corridor.

***

**JANUARY 19**

A good thing about Catholic cathedrals is that there are a lot of different places to hide. Pete finds his spot on a small balcony at the top of a spiralling staircase. There's a door at the other end of it, bolted shut. Pete thinks it probably goes to the bell tower. Since church bells are nowadays activated by a button somewhere far below, no one really has a reason to come up to this place anymore.

It has a really nice view.

The choir usually stands to the left of the altar during Mass, and, to be able to see the left side of the second row properly then, you need to sit in one of the first ten pews or so. Pete tries to avoid it as much as he can. There are too many people watching, too many who know him well enough to realise that it's not in Pete's character to be attending Mass every Sunday. So he tries to stay away. He's lost the battle four times so far.

It kind of disgusts him how beneficial not having enough self-control is proving to be for his career.

Then again, gaining the Undersheriff's approval is a plausible excuse for his sudden craving for spiritual nurturing. Pete is disturbingly okay with people he likes thinking that he's an opportunistic asshole if it means that he can have this. If it can be okay for him to see Patrick in public once in a while.

Down below, the choir is warming up. Pete moves a little closer to the edge. Not enough to risk being seen, just so that the faces focusing on the conductor come into sharper focus. He hasn't seen Patrick for almost a week. Work has been hectic and Patrick's parents haven't been travelling lately. Pete is slowly but surely turning into a chronic insomniac, staying back at the station or wandering aimlessly around his apartment when he's home. The bed just feels wrong now with only Pete in it.

It’s winter. They've been together for close to three months. Pete's not sure how much longer he'll be able to hold out, as much as the prospect of making things official— _forever_ —even if it’s just between the two of them—scares the shit out of him. (Pete doesn’t have a good track record with forever. He loves easily and is prone to throwing himself off of cliffs. Not quite so good with making sure that he’s actually wearing a parachute.) He closes his eyes as Patrick's voice fills the cathedral, strong and pure, mixing with three other harmonies in a quartet. No matter how often he hears it, Pete can’t get enough. Patrick’s voice is more of a sacred experience than Pete has ever found in anything the Church has had to offer.

Well, up until it offered him Patrick, that is.

God, he's so completely fucked. This thing they have—Pete couldn't stop it even if he wanted to.

He's never been so humbly grateful for anything in his entire life.

“Mind if I sit over there?”

Pete turns around slowly, giving his body time to relax and his face a chance to show polite indifference rather than naked fear. There's a man at the top of the steps. Medium height. Short hair. Unremarkable face. Unremarkable everything really. The kind of painfully average look that's nearly impossible to draw a profile picture from or pick out in a lineup. Even the guy's clothes are forgettable.

“Go right ahead.”

The guy smiles. It's a nice, friendly smile, and something in Pete automatically relaxes. The guy walks past him to the very end of the balcony before sitting down against the wall. He takes out a pen from the inside pocket of this jacket and opens a blue notebook. He sets to work, writing or sketching, Pete can't quite tell. The guy looks up every once in a while, fixes his eyes on something in the distance. Pete spends about half an hour focusing on the new altar piece until he realises that the other guy isn't even paying attention to him. So he goes back to watching what he wants to watch, smiling at the way Patrick moves impatiently from foot to foot while some of the girls struggle through their parts. Pete might not get a new chance to sleep properly for another week or two, but at least he'll have more memories to play on repeat in the dark.

He leaves ten minutes before the practice is over. The other guy gives him a brief nod.

They share the balcony every now and again after that, never speaking or otherwise attempting to get to know one another.

Pete kind of likes it that way.

***

_DAY 25 – MORNING_

Jon hesitates on the front porch. He showered and changed his clothes down at the lab, so he knows he looks normal—no different from when he left the house the night before. He doesn’t get how that works, though. He doesn’t feel anything close to normal.

A cheater. Jonathan Jacob Walker is a cheater. He can’t really wrap his mind around that. It clashes with everything he believes in; he should be on his knees with guilt.

It doesn’t feel real.

Jon feels _happy._ How can he be happy when he’s, very probably, just lost his chances at having a real marriage with the mother of his unborn child? It’s completely surreal.

And yet…

“Cass?” he calls out as he closes the door behind him. “Cassie, you still home?”

No answer. Jon checks his watch. It’s 7:56. Cassie usually leaves for work around seven thirty.

It’s kind of ridiculous how relieved he feels that she’s gone.

He’s in the middle of making himself some breakfast when his pager beeps. _419, St Mary’s on Newlane_. Jon stares at the message for a minute, feels a chill travel down his spine. _Fuck_. Not another one.

***

_DAY 25 – 8:15 AM_

St Mary’s Evangelical Church is the home of a small, Protestant congregation. The building is made of white-painted wood and flanked by willow trees on both sides. The yellow and black tape looks very out of place.

Ryan is the first one of their team to arrive on site. He parks his Denali and greets the officers sipping coffee on the front steps. The morning sun is filtering down through the trees. It’s eerily beautiful.

Ryan’s phone buzzes. Spencer is on his way. Jon told him the same thing about ten minutes earlier. Only Brendon left.

Brendon.

Ryan stops short. The kit in his hand is suddenly far too heavy, and he manages to set it down on the floor before grabbing on to the church door for balance. He takes out his phone, checks outgoing messages. The number to Brendon’s pager is listed exactly nineteen minutes earlier. As long as Ryan has known him, Brendon has never failed to answer a page straight away.

(This includes the time when Spencer sent him one by mistake when Brendon was away on vacation and had no earthly way of actually making it to the crime scene.)

Ryan pulls up Brendon’s number from his contact book and hits 'dial'. One ring and the call goes to voice mail. Ryan does it again. Same result. Ryan closes his eyes, tells himself he’s being ridiculous.

“Morning, Ross,” Dr Hurley calls cheerfully as Ryan walks through the door.

Ryan keeps his eyes on the wooden floor. The church isn’t big. He only has another five yards or so before he will inevitably reach the altar.

Brendon.

_The side of a desk cutting into his hips. Hands on his face. Lips moving mindlessly over his cheek…_

_“I love you.”_

Why the _fuck_ couldn’t he bring himself to say it back?

“You okay?”

Ryan jumps. Dr Hurley is right in front of him.

“Just tell me.”

“Female. Early twenties. Looks like another one of your angel murders.”

Ryan head snaps up. “What?”

“See for yourself.”

Ryan does. There’s a girl lying on the altar, white bathrobe wrapped around her slender body.

About twenty seconds later, Brendon bursts through the door.

“Sorry,” he calls out, hurrying down the aisle. “My phone died. What did I miss?”

Ryan thinks he manages to pull himself together fast enough for the surge of relief not to bloom all over his face. From the strange look Dr Hurley gives him, he’s not one hundred percent sure, however.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, looking away quickly and focusing on the victim, because _Jesus Christ_ , Brendon is still wearing the same clothes. “Spencer and Jon should be here in a minute,” he continues, turning to Dr Hurley. “When do you think you’ll have the body ready for processing?”

Andy looks up from his clipboard, flips a page. “Fifteen minutes maybe? You can start with the pictures if you want.”

Ryan nods. Beside him, Brendon pulls out his camera. The clicking of the shutter is loud in the room. Andy softens it slightly by humming an old song under his breath.

“Um, Ryan?”

Ryan pulls himself out of the thoughts of how easy it would be to just take a couple of steps to the side and wrap his arms around Brendon. Reach out a hand and turn what happened the night before into something undeniable.

“Yeah?”

“She’s wearing two rings.”

Ryan frowns and steps closer. Brendon snaps a few frames of the girl’s left hand.

Ryan looks at Dr Hurley for confirmation. Andy nods, and Ryan puts on a pair of gloves and takes a small jar of Red Creeper out of his kit. He lifts what might be another partial from the simple gold bands on the girl’s finger and then slides both of them off her hand. The first one is identical to the three they’ve found before, the word _Humility_ curling beautifully around the inner surface. Ryan puts it in an evidence bag and takes up the second one.

_Jonathan Walker, 09/15/09_


	5. Diligence

_DAY 29 – 9:45 PM_

The fifth victim is a young girl. Cassadee Pope, 15. Found on the altar in Calvary Chapel on Maverick four days after the murder of Cassie Walker turned the angel killer investigation from difficult to unbearable with the tip of a hand. The similar names only make things harder: images from Cassie's crime scene flash behind Spencer’s eyes, and he finds himself unable to look away from Cassadee's face as he carefully and systematically collects evidence from the small body. There isn’t very much. Spencer has seen a lot of dead girls since he started working at the lab, and he can’t even remember processing a victim that looked so… perfect before. There is not a speck of dirt anywhere, and she’s been dressed up and arranged with so much care, it’s staggering. If it wasn’t for the fact that the girl is _dead_ , Spencer would call it love. To be honest, he still might.

“What do we have?” Ryan asks from the door, pulling on a pair of gloves as he comes to stand next to Spencer.

“He curled her hair,” Spencer says. “It’s flat in the back, where it was trapped under her head, but he curled all the rest of it perfectly. What kind of killer does that?”

“I don’t know,” Ryan admits. “A lot of this makes no sense to me. He’s not being consistent. He’s killing after a set list of religious symbols, but there’s nothing else to suggest a religious fanatic. He doesn’t know his symbolism. He’s not working after the church calendar or the days of saints. He’s dressing them up as angels, but without incorporating anything that someone who studied angels in a theological setting would know and value. It’s like we’re dealing with a child that’s painting pictures from stories he’s heard in Sunday school.”

Spencer is silent for a while, contemplating.

“Maybe we are,” he says. “Maybe this is just a regular Joe who’s gone over the bend one day and decided to make pretty things.”

Ryan reaches out and touches a perfect curl of dark hair, rubbing it carefully between his fingers. “Yeah, maybe.”

They work side by side for about twenty minutes. It’s a familiar routine, one they have perfected over years of practice. The checks yield exactly what they’re expecting from this killer by now: no signs of a struggle, no wounds or lacerations, no bruises, no signs of sexual assault; hair and fibre that will most certainly be consistent with what they already have, but that doesn’t really help as long as they don’t have a suspect to match it to.

“How is Jon?” Spencer asks quietly as Ryan is finishing up the blood work for a tox screen.

“How come you need to ask?”

“We—” Spencer starts, trying to figure out how to tell Ryan without giving in to the tight feeling pressing down on his chest. “We fucked. That night. It just—I don’t know how it happened really.”

“You were working that night.”

Spencer swallows. “Yeah. It was kind of… then. After we wrapped up the scene. Before we left to come back here.”

“Spencer…”

“I know, alright? Don’t you think I fucking _know_ how—” He trails off. It’s too much all at once, and he doesn’t know how to get the rest of it across.

“What time?” Ryan asks, as though he knows what Spencer hasn’t found a way to tell him yet. It’s a little scary how well they know each other after all these years.

“Sunrise,” Spencer whispers, and that’s all he has to say. Ryan was there when Dr Hurley announced the estimated time of death for Cassie Walker. Spencer doesn’t need to spell it out.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

“When… I arrived at the scene,” Ryan says softly, “there was this moment when I thought—I got this premonition of walking up to the altar and seeing… Survivor’s guilt isn’t easy, Spence. You’ve seen it enough to know that.”

Spencer nods and turns his attention back to the dead girl, sliding off the familiar gold band from her wedding finger. “Diligence,” he says, putting it down on the metal surface next to the autopsy table to snap a few pictures. “Funny, I would have placed my bets on chastity for someone as young and pretty as her.”

“Only that and temperance left now,” Ryan says. “At least the list of potential victims will be short in this town.”

***

**FEBRUARY 5**

“So, are you free next Tuesday?” Pete asks casually as Patrick drives him home from Mass after Pete’s car mysteriously wouldn’t start when he got to the parking lot. Pete suspects the battery. Mostly because he might have accidentally left the lights on for most of the night with no ulterior motive whatsoever.

“Next Tuesday is Valentine’s Day,” Patrick says, in a voice that makes the silent ‘dumbass’ largely redundant.

“Yup,” Pete confirms cheerfully. “I want to take you out to dinner.”

Patrick’s eyebrows disappear into his hair. “Have you completely lost your mind? Only couples go out to dinner on Valentine’s Day, and everyone gossips like crazy about who they’ve seen out with who. You might as well just send a photo of me naked in your bed to my dad—oh, no, don’t even…” Patrick throws Pete a dark look as he turns a corner. “If I so much as see you with a camera, I will personally and painfully shove it down your throat.”

“Aw, Trick, come on! Naked pics are fun. I could totally show you.”

“Not a chance in hell. It’s like one of those crazy laws of the universe or something: naked pictures always end up on the Internet sooner or later. It’s happened to people in my class like eight times already this semester. And I’m in a preppy, Catholic private school.”

“Wouldn’t that actually increase the chances?”

Patrick snickers. “Yeah, okay. You have a point.”

“So about Valentine’s Day…”

Patrick parks the car in his usual spot and turns off the engine. “I don’t know, Pete. Wouldn’t that be kind of risky?”

“It’ll be fine. I totally have a plan. It’s super sneaky. Would you be able to get away for the night?”

“Well, my parents usually go to see one of the bigger shows,” Patrick says, chewing on his lower lip in indecision as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “I don’t want to pretend I have a date, because my mom would go all mushy and happy and want to meet her—note the emphasis on the ‘her’—and my dad might try to offer me fatherly advice, which is a conversation I was hoping to avoid until I'm at least forty. I don't know—normally, I try and make myself useful somehow. Babysitting my younger cousins or whatever.”

“What if—” Pete says, cutting himself short as though whatever idea that just entered his mind was dismissed before it had a chance to fully form.

“What?”

They’ve made it out of the car and into the elevator. Pete presses the button for the eighth floor with an exaggerated flourish. “Um... What if I kind of... let it slip to your dad that I’ve just met this really sweet girl who’s a single mom and that I would love to take her out on Valentine’s Day?” he says, looking more apprehensive with every word. “Except there’s the adorable toddler that can’t be left alone all night, right? And it’s just so hard to find a babysitter you can—no. Fuck. Forget it, I'm such a—no.”

Patrick just stares. The elevator pings and Pete gets out, leaving Patrick to continue the ride for two more floors before he goes back down to the right one and hurries down the familiar hallway. Pete is waiting right on the other side of the door, and Patrick kisses him before he has time to even kick off his shoes.

“Do it,” he breathes against Pete's lips, kissing him again when Pete starts to make some kind of protesting sound. “Please?”

Most of the time, they try to pretend that the world around them doesn't exist, and Patrick _knows_ how difficult Pete finds it to be someone Patrick's parents trust when he and Patrick have to lie to them more or less every day.

Pete moans into his mouth, and Patrick holds him tighter, murmuring things like 'I want you to' and 'It'll be fine' until Pete melts against him and Patrick feels a smile ghost against his skin.

“Be my Valentine?” Pete asks breathlessly, and Patrick nods fiercely, smiling into their next kiss as they stumble into the living room and fall down on the couch. “How long can you stay now?”

Patrick checks his watch. It’s almost noon. “Ten minutes, maybe? Fifteen, tops.”

“Good,” Pete whispers, mouth playing with Patrick’s left earlobe. “Then I have time to do this…”

***

_DAY 31 – 5:00 PM_

Zack has seen his fair share of tragedies since he joined the lab. Law enforcement is not a risk-free occupation, and sometimes, people die. Whenever there is a serial killer on the loose, the detectives and CSI’s tend to go a little crazy and identify a little too much—as though every new murder is somehow at least partly their fault for not being smarter or faster or something else that would have limited the body count.

The sight of Jon Walker huddled up in a corner of the DNA Lab with an open evidence box at his feet possibly takes the prize for pain though. Zack stands quietly by one of the shelves for a moment, deliberating whether to approach or simply go away. Walker is not supposed to be where he is, or handling the evidence Zack suspects is in the box on the floor.

“I thought Ross told you to go on that vacation to Lake Tahoe you’ve been talking about.”

Walker looks up, shrugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” Jon says, disgust clear and cutting in his voice. “Nothing that makes a fucking bit of difference.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well,” Jon says. “That doesn’t change things either.”

“You need any help?”

“Do you have a gun and an address?”

“Not yet.”

“Too bad,” Walker says, pulling himself off the floor and putting the lid back on the brown box. “When you do, give me a call.”

Zack is just about to answer when Detective Wentz appears around the corner, coming to a stop right in front of the door.

“What part of ‘you’re off the case’ didn’t register with you?”

Walker gives another shrug and picks the evidence box up into his arms. “Just go away, Pete.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Fuck you!” Jon snaps. “Like you wouldn’t understand. I practically had to physically hold you down last year when the review board approved parole for the thug who shot your old partner. If not for me, you would be in jail for manslaughter right now. You fucking owe me.”

“Yeah,” Wentz says slowly. “I do. Zack, can you get that box back to Archives, please?”

Zack looks from one to the other and then steps forward, simply lifting the evidence box out of Jon’s hands.

“Don’t kill each other.”

Wentz smiles and grabs Walker by the arm, pulling him with him out of the room. “I’ll do my best.”

***

**FEBRUARY 14**

“Bonsoir, Monsieur. Très bienvenu. Quel nom, s’il vous plaît?”

“Um…” Patrick does a double take. Yes, he’s in Pete’s apartment. The person in front of him is definitely Pete (unless there’s an evil twin somewhere that Patrick hasn’t heard about), but for some reason, he’s wearing glasses, black pants, a white dress shirt, a black tie and apron and has a white linen towel draped over his arm. Oh, and he’s speaking French.

“La réservation,” The-guy-who-is-probably-Pete says, annoyance bleeding into his voice. “Under what name iz it, please?” The accent is ridiculous. Patrick clenches his jaw to keep from laughing out loud.

“Pete Wentz,” he manages and tries to keep back a snicker when Pete pulls a small book from the front pocket of his apron and consults it seriously.

“Ah, oui,” he says, smiling at Patrick with the perfect kind of insincere tug of lips of a bored waiter. “I am Pierre and I weel be your garçon tonight. Zis way, please.”

Patrick follows him into the living room, briefly registering how much _cleaner_ everything seems to be. Even the coffee table has been cleared. Patrick barely recognises the place.

“Et voilà!” Pete says, stepping aside. “Votre table, Monsieur.”

Patrick sits down at the lavishly decorated table, somewhere between speechless and trying his best not to convulse in laughter. Pete-pretending-to-be-a-French-waiter-named-Pierre takes a bottle of champagne from a cooler filled with ice at the end of the table and pours two glasses. He hands Patrick a menu and places the second one at the opposite side before taking off with what Patrick guesses is a polite comment. Patrick stares after him as he disappears into the kitchen. Half a minute later, Pete reappears, sans glasses, apron, towel and black tie now, the first two buttons of his shirt undone.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, sliding into his chair with an apologetic smile. “Wow, you look fantastic tonight.”

Patrick bites his lip harder, forcing the laughter back down into his lungs.

“Thanks. This looks like a really nice place. Good service.”

Pete smiles wider, takes up his glass and touches it to Patrick’s. The champagne is cool and dry. Veuve Clicqot—a long-standing Vaughn Stump family favourite.

“I hear the fish is really nice,” Pete says as Patrick opens his menu. It’s all in French. Of course it is.

“I don’t know. I was kind of thinking a _filet de veau_ myself.” Patrick might not be able to pronounce it correctly, but his parents have been taking him to upscale, French restaurants since he was about three years old. He knows his way around a menu by now (and, more importantly, knows to always avoid anything with the words ‘entrailles,’ ‘cervelle,’ or ‘tripe’ in the description).

“Well, I hope you don’t mind,” Pete says, looking up at Patrick with an expression of total sincerity, “but I kind of ran into our waiter on my way here and so I ordered today’s special for both of us. You’re not allergic to shellfish, are you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

Suddenly, Pete’s beeper goes off. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the message with a frown on his face. “Shit, sorry. I need to take this. Be right back, okay?”

Pete hurries off into the kitchen. There are sounds of cupboards being opened and plates clanking together. A couple of minutes later, Pierre arrives—glasses, black tie, apron and towel back in place—with what looks like two plates of intricately arranged mountains of very tiny lobsters that smell richly of garlic and butter.

“Voilà, Monsieur,” Pete-as-Pierre says, putting down one of the plates in front of Patrick with a smug little grin. “Langoustines à l’aïl au gratin. Bon apétit.” He puts down a basket of bread and two bowls filled with water and lemons next to the plates and disappears again.

Patrick watches him leave and then turns his attention to the food. It smells absolutely fantastic. He looks to the right of his plate and finds a thin utensil that looks like a long spoon with a tiny fork at the other end. It’s not that different from his mom’s lobster forks.

“God, I’m so sorry,” Pete says, slipping back into his chair. “New case. I called Travis and had him go down to the station, but I might have to take a call every now and then. How’s your starter?”

Patrick scoops out the tail of one of the pale, pink shellfish at the top of the little pile. The meat practically melts in his mouth, flavours of parsley and garlic mixing with smooth, melted butter on his tongue, making his eyes cross a little.

“Oh wow.”

Pete grins proudly.

***

The rest of the dinner is by far the most entertaining one Patrick’s ever been to. Pierre-the-waiter becomes progressively snottier (not to mention exceptionally, flamboyantly gay) and Pete’s excuses turn more and more creative. He manages to quote most of _Superman III_ , along with some of Patrick’s other favourite movies. When he leaves to get coffee, claiming that [his grandmother is on fire,](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dYu6SzzIP5U&feature=PlayList&p=5FA209D26D3C24CD&index=25) Patrick laughs so hard that some of the water he just tried to drink actually sprays out of his nostrils.

Once all the food and wine is gone, Pierre thanks Patrick and wishes him a _bonne soirée_ before disappearing for good, leaving Pete, happy and relaxed, pulling Patrick to his feet for a semi-drunken dance in the middle of the living room floor.

“Stay the night,” Pete mumbles against his neck, kissing his way down to Patrick’s collarbone and biting down lightly. “Call your parents and tell them my imaginary date had a possible allergic reaction to her dessert or something and that you need to stay here while I take her to the emergency room.”

Patrick shivers and tilts his head further to the side, giving Pete better access. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I know,” Pete replies, frustration clear in his voice. “It’s risky and stupid and totally sucks. But it would suck _so much more_ to send you home now that the wine has given me so many other, _good_ ideas.”

Patrick moans against Pete’s neck, attacking it with kisses of his own, mental pictures forming in his head at an alarming rate. “What kind of ideas?”

“I want to get you out of these clothes,” Pete says, starting in on the buttons of Patrick’s shirt under the thin sweater as he speaks. “Lay you out on my bed. Light some candles.” He opens the last button and pulls Patrick’s sweater over his head before edging his hands under the open shirt. “I bet you would look gorgeous in candlelight. All pale and golden.”

“You too,” Patrick replies, trying to catch up with Pete in the competition for most clothes thrown to the floor in less than two minutes. “God, I want to see that. And then?”

Pete swallows. His hands reach for the fastenings on Patrick’s pants, fumbling as they undo the button and push the zipper down. “I… _Jesus_ —I don’t even know where to start.”

“I do,” Patrick murmurs, earning a stifled groan in response. He feels Pete’s hands move up to tangle in his hair, pushing it out of his face to make more room for hurried, heated kisses. “Okay, let me just call my mom.”

Pete nods, leaning his forehead against Patrick’s when he finally manages to pull away from their kiss. “Make it quick. I’ll go clear the bed. I kind of put all the shit from out here in the bedroom when I was cleaning before.”

Patrick snickers, because that makes a lot more sense than Pete having suddenly turned into Martha Stewart (who would be seriously proud of Pete’s living room right now, holy crap). He takes out his phone, calls his mom. Not his dad, who tends to be the one driving (and slightly annoyed because of it) when Patrick’s parents go out. Patrick’s mom, on the other hand, is very mellow and easy to persuade when she’s a little tipsy. He spins a tale of ground-up hazelnuts, sleeping toddlers, guest bedrooms and a giant DVD collection. His mom doesn’t object, just tells him she’s proud that she has a son who takes on responsibility and helps out when people need it and warns him not to be late for school the next day. Patrick hears Pete move around in the bedroom and kind of loves his mom more than anything.

He takes off the rest of his clothes before walking through the doorway. Pete is shuffling dirty laundry from a pile on the bed to a corner of the floor, the flickering light of about a dozen candles playing off the muscles in his bare back. Patrick walks up behind him and presses close, leaning in to kiss the skin between Pete’s shoulder blades and wrapping his arms around Pete’s waist to make quick work of his pants.

***

_DAY 31 – 5:10 PM_

Spencer is setting things up in the surveillance area off interrogation room five when voices suddenly filter in through the intercom. He looks up and sees Detective Wentz pull Jon through the door, practically tossing him into one of the uncomfortable chairs by the small table.

“Let me tell you a story, Walker,” Spencer hears Wentz say, and he turns up the incoming sound from the other room a little bit, the need to hear Jon's voice overriding any kind of guilt he might have felt over listening in on their conversation. “It starts with a normal guy, right. And one day, he walks into a room and _bam!_ the love of his life is right there. Epic romance and instant bliss, right? Except not really because the true love turns out to be fucking unsuitable and a really, really bad idea to even think about. But, yeah, fuck that, right? Because love conquers all and all that jazz, and this guy is too lost to even think straight anymore anyway.”

“I really don't want to hear it Pete,” Jon says on the other side of the glass. “So you had a fabulous stalker romance with someone back in the day. Good for you. Now leave me alone.”

“No,” Wentz says. “Because I haven't told you the best part yet. And I'm going to, even if that means keeping your ass in here until we both starve to death or something equally tragic.”

Jon looks up, and Spencer gets a good view of his face for the first time in days. God, he looks so tired.

“Fine,” Jon says, turning away from Wentz to stare at something incredibly interesting on the empty wall instead. “Tell me then. I really don't give a shit right now.”

“Some things are worth waiting for,” Wentz says slowly, grabbing Jon's hands on top of the table. “There will always be completely shitty times ahead, but if you don't commit your heart and give your fucking all, you'll never make it through. And I get that your life sucks right now. Really, I do. You were _this close_ to having everything you'd dreamed of for as long as I've known you, and you blew it all one night in a bar with too much JD. And when you try to adjust and fix things, it blows up in your face even more. And it sucks. It sucks that you married a girl you didn't love and that you couldn't make yourself love her even though she was the sweetest, most amazing, sainted little blonde thing ever to walk the face of the earth. And it sucks that she died, but what a convenient thing to transfer your guilt to, huh? You didn't love your wife so she _died._ Gigantic bitchslap from God himself, right there in your face, right? Might as well lock yourself in a tower and throw away the key. Safe and snug. You'll never have to take a chance and fuck up again for as long as you live. Well, guess what, Walker? Not everything turns out like you plan, but if you have the balls to be honest with yourself and go for what you really want, then maybe you can do something better with your life than be completely miserable.”

Jon doesn't reply. His face is completely void of emotion, and he keeps staring at the wall. He doesn't even blink, just lets the wetness forming in his eyes well up and spill over, like the dolls Spencer's sisters had when they were little, that you could fill with water and make cry by pushing a button on the back.

“Make it up to Smith,” Pete says, pushing out of his chair. “Today, next week, in thirty years, whatever—but make it happen. Because he's the one, you fucking idiot. And if you haven't realised that by now, then I'm deeply sad for you.”

“Fuck you,” Jon manages. It's barely more than a broken breath.

“Sorry, Jonny,” Pete replies cheerfully. “I totally would, dude, but then the wife would have to kill you. And trust me when I say that you do not want to be on the receiving end when Mrs Wentz throws a temper tantrum.”

The corners of Jon's mouth actually pull back a little bit, and Spencer releases a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.

“Pete, the day you get someone—someone who's an actual, living, non-imaginary person—to marry you,” Jon says, “I will host a party in your honour and dance on a table in pink drag, singing _Pretty Woman_ at the top of my lungs.”

Wentz's answering smile is so huge that Spencer briefly wonders if it will end up cutting his head in two.

“I'll hold you to that,” he says, clapping Jon on the back before reaching for the door. “Better start practising. You'll need a dance to match the dress.”

Jon gives him the finger when Wentz walks out, but he looks a little less tense. Completely broken, but in a better way, if such a thing is possible. Spencer gets a mental picture of a tiny Phoenix baby bird shrugging off the ashes. He reaches out a hand, places it against the one-sided mirror, wishing he could somehow just fall through the glass.

***

_DAY 31 – 7:30 PM_

“Aren’t you supposed to be in interrogation?” Patrick asks as he climbs through the open window to the fire escape below. “Zack said Spencer was looking all over for you earlier.”

Pete lifts his head and gives him a tired look before leaning it back on his knees. “Probably, yeah.”

“So…? Are you going to join him?”

“He’ll be fine. It was a routine interview anyway. He’s probably done by now.”

“Okay,” Patrick says, sitting down against the red brick wall a few steps above Pete. “Wanna talk about whatever it is that’s bothering you?”

“How well do you know Jon Walker?”

“Not that well. I’ve helped him with evidence analysis on two cases so far. We haven’t really talked much.”

“He’s falling apart,” Pete says. “And I don’t know how to fucking stop it. Did you know he was married? I mean, before they found her?”

“Yeah. He and Spencer were blowing up all over the place the week after I started. I didn’t pay that much attention to it though.”

Pete nods slowly. Patrick leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes to the setting sun, fingers tapping a syncopated rhythm absently against his thigh.

“I tried to kill myself once,” Pete says suddenly. “I never told you that. Back when I was twenty-one and just too messed up to keep anything together. I swallowed some pills, drank half a bottle of vodka and parked my car in an empty parking lot. It was so fucking easy.”

Patrick stills. “Why are you telling me this?”

“If that had been you—I mean, if that psycho had—I wouldn’t have used pills then. Too easy to undo.”

“But it wasn’t me,” Patrick says firmly. “Pete, look at me. I’m just fine.”

Pete looks back over his shoulder and manages a small smile. Patrick wishes he could touch him.

“Soon, Trick,” Pete says, as though the feeling of _want_ inside Patrick is drawn plainly across his face. “After college, remember? Less than a year to go now.”

“You know, sometimes, I think your big master plan is just stupid.”

“I know. But it will all be worth it, I promise. I’m saving all my vacation time this year, so after you graduate, we’ll go on a trip. Take a proper honeymoon somewhere. Did your parents ever take you to Europe?”

“Once when I was four or five, I think,” Patrick says. “Mom had a friend who lived in Paris for a while. I don’t remember anything about it, but there are pictures at home of me getting jam all over my face and playing with French pastries.”

“Cute.”

“Very.”

“So, is there a place you’d really want to go to?”

Patrick thinks for a long time. “Iceland,” he says finally. “I want to see the midnight sun.”

“I hear there’s this really cool volcanic lagoon there,” Pete replies. “The water is supposed to be insanely blue and completely opaque. Really good place for sex.”

Patrick grins. “You know, Pete, I’m not sure you’ve realised this, but there is actually a difference between going public and going at it _in_ public.”

“That’s what you think,” Pete teases, right before his phone starts to buzz. “Shit, I’m supposed to meet the DA for an update on the angel murders. Catch you later, okay?”

Patrick nods and goes back to leaning sleepily against the wall. His shift doesn’t start for another half-hour. He has time to enjoy the sunset before he leaves.

***

_DAY 31 – 7:05 PM_

“She's such a fantastic girl. She started swimming when she was four, did you know? And reading. Really early reader. Just the best girl you could wish for. Always so amazing, and...”

Spencer tunes out the rambling recollections. He's been interviewing Cassadee Pope's biological father for close to an hour and it's been looking like a giant waste of his time for almost as long. The man before him won't stop crying. Spencer has managed to ask three whole questions that got even close to coherent answers so far: the man's name (Joseph Keanes), his address (54, Magnolia Street) and his place of work ( _The Las Vegas Sun,_ research assistant, which Spencer understands to mean 'general slave who has to run around an do all the grunt work and never see his name in print'). The remaining fifty-eight minutes have been spent on crying, more crying and turning every one of Spencer's questions into an ode to his sainted child. He's not getting anywhere, Pete is MIA and Brendon is probably still working on the evidence they got from Jon’s house. He’s got other things to do.

“Thank you for your time.”

Mr Keanes shakes his hand, still crying. Spencer's never been so glad to see the back of someone before in his life.

“How did it go?” Ryan asks when he comes back to the boardroom.

“No luck,” Spencer replies. “I know we said that everyone’s a suspect at this point, but honestly, Ryan, I don't think anyone could have said the things he did and not be totally honest. The guy was a wreck.”

Ryan nods. “Did you get a DNA sample?”

“Couldn't even be distracted for long enough to accept a cup of water. Just sat there and cried and talked about how proud he was that he had such a great daughter and how much he would miss her.”

“Fuck.”

Spencer does a double-take. Ryan doesn't swear openly at work. It's been years since Spencer heard him say so much as a 'damn it.'

“You okay?”

“I'm fine, Spence, don't worry about it.”

Spencer does though. Worrying is kind of a speciality of his. He's been doing it for far too long to just stop now because Ryan asks him to.

“Where's Brendon?”

It hits the mark. Spencer can practically see the muscles in Ryan's back tense up where he's leaning over the conference table.

“I sent him out with the swing shift to process the hit and run over on Fifth. It's—I mean, we’re—I think I fucked it up.”

An uncomfortable blush spreads across Ryan’s cheeks, and his eyes dart in the direction of the window overlooking the back of the lab before fixing themselves firmly on the floor. Spencer feels something cold and painful trickle down his spine. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I never meant for it to happen,” Ryan says quietly. “We’ve been fine. Not completely on the same page, but something like it. And it’s like, people don’t _do_ that. Not for real. So not talking about it wasn’t really that hard.”

“What happened?”

“I caved,” Ryan confesses, not meeting Spencer’s eyes. “It was _that_ night, for us as well. We were discussing a case in the Ballistics Lab. He kissed me. And I just… I just couldn’t remember how to say no anymore.”

Spencer doesn’t reply. He wants to, but it would all be stones thrown in glasshouses, and more importantly, it wouldn’t help. He walks closer to Ryan, reaches out, pulls him in for a hug when Ryan doesn’t shy away. Ryan hugs him back, the clasp of his arms fierce and somewhat desperate. Spencer holds on tighter, burying his face against Ryan’s neck. It’s the first thing in days that feels like the world isn’t completely fucked up.


	6. Temperance

**FEBRUARY 14**

They move onto the bed, pushing the blanket aside. Pete’s hands still tremble when they pass south of Patrick’s waist or north of his knees. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the twists and turns his mind has been taking since his bolt-of-lightning-out-of-nowhere freak-out in the shower almost two months earlier. Pete’s always been a big fan of diversity—and God knows he’s kissed enough guys to have earned at least an honorary membership to the gay community. Taking the next step shouldn’t logically be this hard. Especially not when he wants it so much it’s practically all he can think about these days.

And yet.

Patrick is beautiful. No matter how much he stares, Pete can’t seem to get his mind to fully register this fact; his brain sort of goes into a state of stunned disbelief every time he sees Patrick naked. He runs a hand down Patrick’s spine, leans in closer to breathe in the mix of flushed skin and anticipation. This is fine, touching Patrick like this. So much better than fine, even…

Pete starts out at the shoulders and works his way down, hands only at first, until the need to kiss and taste becomes overwhelming. The candles create a perfect golden sheen, soft flames reflecting in the wet marks left by Pete’s tongue. _So, so beautiful…_

“Can I try something?”

Patrick nods into the pillow he’s clutching, arching his back to press himself closer to Pete’s hands. Pete kisses the curve of Patrick’s spine and closes his eyes to pull himself together. The little sounds filtering out from Patrick’s mouth do more for the spinning in Pete’s head than the three quarters of a wine bottle he just poured down his throat, but the alcohol isn’t exactly helping. He balls up his right hand, waits until it stops shaking and reaches out for one of the tall candles on the bedside table.

“Okay, just relax,” he says, pressing another kiss to the tip of Patrick’s shoulder. “Let it all just mix and wash over you.”

Patrick moans into the pillow, and Pete leans down, wets a patch on the pale skin with his tongue. He holds up the candle, tilting it, watching transfixed as the melted wax spills over the edge and begins to fall.

Patrick cries out, but it’s the good kind of cry. Pete hasn’t been experimenting with these kind of things for a long, long time, but he remembers where the distinctions go. Patrick’s sounds are just a little lower in pitch than what he’s used to, and unlike the whole holy-shit-another-dick thing, Patrick’s undoubtedly male voice is something Pete’s mind apparently doesn’t have any kind of problems with.

He moves his mouth to another spot, tilts the candle again. Patrick’s whole body tenses in response, before releasing all the energy in a desperate-sounding groan.

“God, Pete. More. _Moremoremoremoremore…_ ”

Pete obeys, making patterns and swirls, getting back in his stride and remembering just how far to let the wax fall so that it’s cool enough not to burn but still hot enough to cause adrenaline to completely flood Patrick’s body.

“Too much heat,” Patrick gasps, grinding down against the sheets in long, jerking movements. “Please, Pete, your mouth. I need—God, that thing to do with your _tongue…_ ”

“Don’t move.”

Patrick whimpers in protest as Pete moves off the bed. The sounds he makes when Pete returns with his booty and lets a sliver of ice melt against Patrick’s overheated skin are even better. Pete puts another cube into his mouth, guiding it along Patrick’s spine with his tongue.

_“Oh God!”_

Patrick is babbling now, clutching at the sheets and the pillow with both hands as Pete alternates between hot and cold. Pete is running out of skin to kiss, and without really realising it, he finds himself going lower, putting the candle back on the bedside table to be able to use both hands.

His tongue is still cool from the ice. Patrick moans as it slides over the small of his back, down between rounded cheeks. Patrick presses back against him urgently, and Pete closes his eyes, tries to disconnect the part of his brain that is threatening to start back up again. He can do this. If he can go down on a girl in a public restroom, he can definitely do this.

Except when he moves his tongue in for a first lick, he just can’t.

_Fuck._

He tries again. Fails again. Patrick is begging now. Pete kind of wants to cry.

“I’m sorry. Shit! I’m so sorry.”

He nudges Patrick’s hip until he turns over on his back and finds his eyes automatically drawn to the area between the open legs. The sight of Patrick’s cock, hard and flushed, doesn’t exactly help with the sudden case of being a pathetic fucking baby.

“I don’t—” he tries to explain. “I mean, I’ve never—I don’t know how to _do_ this.”

The confusion on Patrick’s face clears up a little. He leans his head back into the pillow, closes his eyes.

And slides a hand down the side of his stomach to rest between his legs.

“Can you watch?” Patrick asks breathlessly, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he wraps his hand around his cock and starts stroking. “Is that okay?”

Pete nods stupidly, because, _God, yes._ Watching Patrick getting himself off? So much better than okay.

“Hey,” Patrick says, calling Pete’s attention to his face before opening his mouth and sucking two fingers inside. Pete stares.

“I’ve been fantasising about you doing this,” Patrick continues, moving his left hand down and spreading his legs a little wider. “Ever since you kissed me, I’ve been thinking about how it would feel, having your fingers inside me instead of my own.”

“Jesus, Trick.”

“It feels really good,” Patrick murmurs, pushing one finger inside, then the other. “Have you ever done this to yourself? No? Oh God, you totally should.” He moves his right hand faster, picking up a perfectly synchronised rhythm. Pete can’t breathe.

“The stretch is weird at first, but once you get all the way inside—” Patrick breaks off with a moan, jerking his hips to push more firmly into his hand. “Like, there’s this spot that’s just… _holy shit_ … you kind of twist your fingers against it, and—God, Pete, _please._ ”

Pete reaches out, wraps his right hand around Patrick’s left, helps him push the fingers deeper. Patrick moves his right hand faster, breath hitching in his throat, his whole body growing tense.

Suddenly, the dick-where-none-should-be-thing isn’t so scary anymore.

Pete leans in, fits his mouth around the very tip of Patrick’s cock and has just enough time to get a good feel for how to move his tongue and tighten his lips before Patrick shudders and loses it. _Jesus fucking Christ._

Pete does his best to hold his breath, remembering the girl who blew him after Homecoming and choked so badly she almost threw up. Patrick’s hand falls away limply, his breathing ragged and uneven as he sort of tugs a little on Pete’s arm, signalling ‘up.’

“Share,” Patrick commands, voice shot completely to hell, and holy _fuck,_ Pete almost comes then and there. He climbs on top of Patrick, aligns their hips, kisses Patrick deeply as he starts to move against his stomach. It doesn’t take long. Not with Patrick grabbing hold of Pete’s hands, tangling their fingers together and whispering things in Pete’s ear that would have Pete blush from head to toe if he had a skin tone that would allow for it and weren’t two seconds away from coming all over Patrick’s chest.

The last thought finishes him off, flashes of Patrick’s skin flooding his mind as he topples over the edge. Patrick’s hands tighten around his, steadying him, and Pete squeezes back, feeling another kind of promise flow unspoken between them.

_To have and to hold._

If Pete hadn’t already been completely and utterly fucked, that would definitely have done it.

***

_DAY 42 – 6:50 PM_

“You’re joking,” Ryan says in disbelief. “The Las Vegas _prison?_ ”

“Yep,” Pete confirms over the phone. “Prison chapel. Found by the priest on duty this morning.”

“How is that even _possible?_ And why are we only getting the call now? It’s almost 7 PM.”

“I have no idea,” Pete admits. “I think the day shift screwed it up somehow. Someone was supposed to make the call and forgot. But I have two very sweet words for you, Ross: restricted access. No one comes into that part of the prison without both signing papers and getting caught on film. Meet you there in half an hour?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Another one?” Jon asks, stepping into the office just as Ryan is hanging up the phone.

“Seems like it.”

“Let me back on the case,” Jon says. “It’s been two and a half weeks. I _need_ to be working on this, Ross. Please.”

“It’s—No, Jon. You know I can’t.”

 _“Please,”_ Jon says tightly. “I won’t compromise the case. Hell, I won’t even touch anything if you don’t want me to, but, God, Ryan, let me help nail this guy.”

Ryan looks at him for a long time. Jon stares back, unblinking, ready to battle it out. Ryan lowers his eyes.

“Okay, fine! But you don’t handle any of the evidence or talk to suspects,” he says. “And if I tell you to back off, you don’t argue. You’re _not_ back on the case, but you can come with us to observe. Will you be able to handle that?”

“Yeah,” Jon says quickly. “Sure, definitely.”

***

_DAY 42 – 7:40 PM_

“If I had to die at the hands of a demented killer, I would definitely want to go out in a place like this,” Dr Hurley says, breaking the stunned silence after the five of them enter the small chapel in the high security ward of the Las Vegas State Prison.

“Me too,” Brendon says, taking a few steps closer to one of the walls. “God, who painted this? It’s absolutely incredible.”

The chapel is covered in angels. Large and small, traditional and more modern, all coming together in a wild mix of colour. Decked out in white where he lies on the altar, the victim looks like he’s just another part of the overall design. Ryan understands why the killer would pick this place, despite security issues and an almost guarantee that he'd get caught.

“I did,” a voice says from behind them. Ryan turns around, facing two guards with a handcuffed inmate between them. The prisoner nods in greeting and then gestures towards the dead man on the altar. “Gee helped.”

“This is Andrew Mrotek,” the guard who met them at the gate says. “More commonly known as ‘the Butcher’ around here. He’s a little more culturally-inclined than most of our other murderers.”

Ryan raises an eyebrow, and the guard apparently gets the message, because the smile on his face turns into a scowl. “So you knew the victim?” Ryan asks. “Actually, could we get a little more information than that? A name might be useful to start with.”

He motions for the Butcher to sit down in one of the pews and calls for Pete to join them. Jon follows, and Brendon and Dr Hurley head over to the victim to start processing the scene.

“Gerard Way,” the Butcher says. “Good man. Decent painter if you told him what to do. Been in here for about two years. Serving six years for manslaughter after knifing some guy in a bar fight when he was drunk out of his mind. Never met anyone who regretted whatever put them in here as much as Gee did. Any kind of community service he could do after he was locked up, he did. Didn’t touch a drop of alcohol after he woke up in jail with no memory and covered in blood either, even on Christmas. Wouldn’t even sniff the miniscule glasses of eggnog we were given as a treat.”

“Temperance,” Brendon says, coming up to where they’re sitting with a golden ring in a plastic evidence bag. He holds it out to Ryan, lips curled into a painful little half-smile. Ryan does his best to be professional without having to actually meet his eyes.

“Thanks.”

Brendon looks like he wants to say something more. This time, Ryan is faster.

“Take Jon with you when you’re done dusting and ask to get the admittance log for the last twenty-four hours,” he says, still keeping his eyes somewhere in the vicinity of Brendon’s left cheek. “Please?”

For a minute, he thinks Brendon will call him on it. Do something. Put a stop to the painful impasse they’re trying to claw themselves out of. He doesn’t. Ryan doesn’t know if what he feels is relief or bitter disappointment.

“Oh, man,” the Butcher says, leaning back against the backrest and crossing his arms once Brendon is gone. “I’ve known you for what? Five minutes? And you don’t even fool _me_ with that.” He smiles widely, suggestively, at Ryan and leans a bit closer. “Nice to see that the boys in blue are becoming a little less of a pack of intolerant assholes these days.”

Pete doesn’t say anything, but Ryan can tell he’s fighting a battle with himself to hold back the laughter. He gives them both (and the guards) his coolest, most dismissive look and turns to his list of questions. They have work to do.

***

**SOMETIME IN MARCH**

When he’s all soft and relaxed in sleep, Patrick doesn’t look a day older than his barely-even-seventeen years. Which is fine, because that’s about how old Pete feels when they’re together.

He knows that the age difference should bother him. Twelve years is a lot, not to mention that for another thirteen months, their relationship is still considered illegal. On the other hand, Pete thinks it’s complete bullshit that loving Patrick could put him behind bars for up to five years just because neither of them is a girl, so that little snag doesn’t really weigh on his conscience. As for the rest, Pete figures that if things go the way he hopes, they will be a boring, middle-aged couple before they know it, and nobody will care which of them is close to retirement and who just passed forty-five. Especially as Patrick will—almost certainly—go bald before Pete does. Pete has spotted the receding hairline under the bangs that fall half-way into Patrick’s face. It’s one of his favourite places to kiss.

***

Pete sleeps like the dead. It’s almost comical sometimes.

Patrick likes to watch him when he wakes up in the middle of the night, all relaxed and happy-on-the-verge-of-giddy from the fact that he’s in Pete’s bed, _naked_ , instead of alone in his own bedroom, wearing the old turtles t-shirt he got back in fifth grade.

It doesn’t happen often enough. Staying the night is only safe when both of Patrick’s parents are out of town, which means once or twice a month—if they’re lucky.

Pete has started talking about maybe moving over to the night shift to give them more time together. Meeting in mornings and afternoons is easier, a lot less risky, and according to Pete, sleeping together during the day gives your relationship that mysterious, hot and sexy vampire-romance edge.

The comeback to that statement had been a given.

And Pete had been more than happy to oblige.

Pete also has a huge crush on the supervisor on the night shift CSI team. Ross-something-or-other. Apparently, the guy is some kind of genius when it comes to finding specific types of sand and weird bugs in just the right state of development on a murder victim so that the detectives can narrow down the area they need to search for evidence from, oh say, _the entire Nevada desert_ to an area of sixteen square feet, mapped in perfectly on a GPS.

It is possible that Patrick is just a little bit jealous.

It is also possible that Pete shamelessly exploits this to get Patrick to pin him just a little harder to the bed/wall/floor/whatever other flat surface the apartment can provide that is sturdy enough, and work Pete over with his hands and mouth until neither of them can stand anymore.

***

_DAY 42 – 9:20 PM_

“I think we have him.”

Pete puts down his copy of the prison admittance log and hands it to Ryan, one name underlined heavily in blue ink.

_Joseph Keanes, The Las Vegas Sun._

“Fifth victim’s father, right?” Pete asks. Ryan nods, feels a paralysing chill travel down his spine. They had this guy in for questioning less than two weeks ago. And they let him loose. _Fuck._

Ryan pulls out his phone, hits speed-dial. “Spence, hi. Remember the interview with Cassadee Pope’s biological father? Yes, the one who cried the entire time. Could you pull up his information, please? No, right now. Yes, it’s important. And could you send over a picture as well?”

They wait.

After about three minutes, Ryan’s phone beeps with a text message and an incoming image transfer in quick succession. Ryan opens the file, stares down at a picture of a friendly, completely ordinary-looking man’s face.

They’ve moved to a table at the back of the chapel now. The guards have left, taking the Butcher back to his cell, leaving the five of them alone behind yellow and black tape. Over by the body, Andy Hurley is checking the victim’s liver temp, whistling happily under his breath while he works.

“Ryan…”

He turns around. Brendon is paler than Ryan’s ever seen him.

“I know this guy,” Brendon manages, sinking down on a chair and looking like he’s about to throw up any minute. “That’s Joe, who plays guitar with me at the hospital every week. I never asked for his last name.”

The room is suddenly very silent. Dr Hurley stops whistling and moves on to check _rigor mortis._

“How—” Brendon says, still looking at the picture with shock and confusion warring on his face. “Joe is _so nice_. All the kids love him. I don’t get how he—”

“That’s him?” Jon says weakly, taking the phone from Ryan’s hand, almost as pale as Brendon. “That’s the guy who killed my family?”

“Jon, calm down,” Pete says firmly. “We have him. All the information. Workplace, address, everything. We’ll get him. You’ll get your day, dude. I swear you will.

“He’s going away,” Brendon says suddenly, voice unsettlingly empty in the large room. “I saw him yesterday. He told me he was leaving Vegas. He was finishing up some things and then he was going away. And he—” Brendon looks up, eyes wide. “Ryan, I need to talk to you. Right now.”

“Brendon…”

“Now.”

Pete watches in bewilderment (and not just a slight dose of worry) as Brendon takes Ryan by the arm and practically drags him into the corridor. Pete keeps staring at the doorway for a long time, processing all the new information, connecting the dots between victims and murderer in his mind.

They have the angel killer.

Something in Pete does a little dance and cheer. He can’t wait to tell Patrick.

He turns to Jon, who is still staring down at the picture in Ryan’s phone, looking like he’s one step away from breaking. Something inside Pete contracts. “Jon. Hey, man, let go of the phone. We’ll get him. I’ll put out the order to bring this psycho in right now. Just give me the phone.”

Jon does, and Pete looks down without really meaning to.

Fuck. _fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!_

Pete’s phone is out of his pocket in record time, punching familiar digits with trembling fingers. _Pick up. Pickuppleasepickuppickup…_

“Pete, what’s wrong?”

Pete can’t breathe. The call doesn’t connect, tinny beeps segueing into voicemail. Pete calls again, already moving out of the room, Jon following close behind.

“Pete!”

The second call goes to voicemail. Pete starts to run.

“Walker, get on your phone right now. All units to the Guardian Angel cathedral on 302 Cathedral Way.”

“What?”

“Fucking _now,_ Jon! Make the fucking call. Ross, where the hell are you!”

Ryan and Brendon appear in the corridor, both looking very tense.

“What’s wrong? Jon? What the fuck is happening?”

Pete doesn’t answer, just keeps running towards the exit, panic rising hot and fast inside him.

“Yeah, the Guardian Angel, 302 Cathedral Way,” he hears Jon say into his phone. “I don’t know. I think the angel killer might be targeting that location. Wentz seems to think— _what?_ ”

They’ve reached the reception. Ryan quickly signs off the paperwork while Pete fidgets impatiently. Jon looks up at them, putting his phone back into his pocket, almost as pale as Brendon now.

“They have a 911,” he says. “Guardian Angel cathedral. Came in about five minutes ago.”

Pete doesn’t curse, or even scream—he positively _howls,_ throwing the door open and climbing inside his car, reversing out of the prison parking lot without another word to any of them.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?” Jon exclaims, handing Ryan’s phone back as they all crowd into Brendon’s Denali. “Hang on. Where is Andy?”

“Still inside,” Ryan says. “He needs to stay behind until he can release the body. Come on, Brendon, drive.”

Brendon nods and pulls out of the yard. They speed back towards downtown Las Vegas on nearly empty roads. Ryan hopes Pete still has enough wits about him not to drive his car off a cliff or into a tree. The drive back is normally about twenty-five minutes. Brendon makes it in fifteen.


	7. Chastity

_DAY 42 – 9:30 PM_

It’s Spencer who gets the call. Mainly because he’s the only one on the team left at the lab for the evening.

“Las Vegas Crime Lab—CSI Smith speaking.”

It’s probably Ryan again. Spencer loves his friend dearly, but he tends to forget worldly things like how to tell the difference between the delete button and the image viewer zoom on his phone at regular intervals.

“I made a mistake,” comes a voice at the other end. “I’m very sorry about it.”

Spencer frowns. “Who is this?”

“The illusion was really good,” the man at the other end says apologetically. “The face, the voice, everything. And I really looked, I did. For a long time. But not closely enough, it seems, and for that, I’m sorry.”

“Seriously, who is this?” Spencer demands. There is something familiar about the voice. A slight lisp combined with an almost childish lilt to some of the words.

“I did my best not to hurt anyone,” the man says. “The world will be happier like this. And they are happy now too. I know it’s hard to accept—I miss my little girl’s smile and Bill’s eyes most of all—but they were meant for better things.”

Spencer nearly drops the phone.

The man continues to describe how happy having all seven angels together will make the world at large while Spencer sprints down the corridor to the Audio Lab, desperate to get a recording and trace started. Patrick isn’t there yet, even though his shift started almost half an hour earlier. _Fucking typical,_ Spencer thinks, annoyed, as he fumbles with the computer, punching in passwords and then the number to the phone he’s holding. Relief surges through him when the right window finally opens and the words ‘trace in progress’ appear on the screen.

“That’s all I wanted to say, really,” Joseph says, because this is Joseph Keanes—Spencer recognises the voice now. “I’m really sorry about your friend. I’m sorry I didn’t know he was already taken and won't be an angel now. I’m sure he’ll be something else, though, something almost as good. So tell those who love him not to worry.”

 _Your friend?_ Spencer thinks dizzily, bile rising in his throat. The Audio Lab feels far too large and empty all of a sudden, a sense of crippling realisation filtering into his mind.

_I didn’t know he was already taken._

Chastity.

_Shit._

The call disconnects, just moments after the trace zooms in and locks itself in place. 302 Cathedral Way. Spencer hits 911 and runs towards his car.

***

**APRIL 9**

“Hi, Dad.”

His father is sitting at his desk, going through a stack of files with one hand while the other is holding up a cell phone to his ear. He smiles at Patrick, waves for him to come inside. Patrick helps himself to some water from the water cooler and sits down in the more comfortable of the two chairs. The call takes another couple of minutes. Patrick uses the time to look at the familiar pictures on his father’s desk. There is one of him as a baby, happy and toothless and covered in some kind of green goo. Great.

“This is a nice surprise,” Patrick’s dad says once he’s put the phone down. “Is everything alright?”

Patrick nods and smiles. “I got my SAT scores back,” he says, handing over a white envelope.

David Vaughn Stump withdraws the transcript inside and carefully reads it all the way through.

“Patrick, this is wonderful.”

“I know, right?” Patrick can’t keep the huge grin off his face. “I mean, I knew I had done alright, but not like this.”

“Have you shown your mom yet?”

“I called her from school. She told me to go over here and drag you away from your desk while she’s calling over some people for a barbeque. Oh, and we are to pick up champagne on our way back.”

“Well, that’s something you should remember for the future: never say no to your wife when she has something she wants to celebrate,” David says with a chuckle. “If we hurry, we might even be able to—” The intercom buzzes. “Yes, Lucy?”

“Detective Wentz here to see you, sir,” a voice announces over the speakerphone. “Shall I send him in?”

“Please do. Thank you, Lucy,” David says and clicks off the call before turning back to Patrick. “I’m sorry. Getting this kind of news just completely makes me forget about my job. Five minutes, okay? Why don’t you call mom and check if there’s anything else she needs from the store in the meantime? You can stay in here if you want.”

Patrick nods and takes out his phone, does his best to keep his eyes on the screen when the door opens and Pete steps inside. He can tell the moment Pete notices him, how the brown eyes trailing over his face make the room a little warmer.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Pete says. Patrick pretends to reluctantly pull his attention away from his phone to give a little wave. Pete smiles. “Hi there, Patrick. Everything okay?”

Patrick says something casual back and goes back to fiddling with his contact book. His mother’s line is busy. He hits automatic re-dial and pulls up a game of Tetris.

“I’m sorry, Wentz,” Patrick hears his dad say. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to reschedule for another day. My son here just got 1490 on his SAT’s and his mother is throwing a small party to celebrate.”

“ _1490?_ ” Pete repeats, a little stunned. “Congratulations, Patrick. That’s pretty amazing.”

“Thanks.” Patrick meets Pete’s eyes and can’t stop a small flush from rising in his cheeks. Pete is keeping his smile nice and friendly, but his eyes… _God._ Patrick can practically feel himself being pressed into the mattress of Pete’s bed and attacked with celebratory kisses until they’re both breathless.

“I’ll let you get going, then,” Pete says. “I just came by to discuss the report you asked me to look into, sir, but we can postpone that until tomorrow.”

“I have a better idea,” the Undersheriff says, accepting the thick folder Pete is holding up between them. “Why don’t you join us for dinner—Patricia is putting together a small barbeque for some friends, nothing fancy—and then we can go through this while we wait for the ribs to cook. I’m going to be out of town for a couple of days, and the DA wants an update.”

“Thank you, sir,” Pete replies. “Let me just wrap up some things with my partner and I’ll meet you over at your house. Is forty-five minutes alright?”

“Perfect,” David Vaughn Stump says. Patrick battles the sudden butterflies in his stomach and couldn’t agree more.

***

“So I hear I’m in love with a genius.”

Patrick looks up from the hedge that might possibly be hiding the football he and his dad were throwing around earlier. Pete is leaning against the trunk of a small apple tree, two glasses of champagne in his hand. The light from the lanterns on the back porch and the fairy lights in the rose garden is spilling into their corner of the yard just enough for Patrick to see the expression on Pete’s face shift as he walks closer—too close—and hands Patrick one of the flutes.

“Congratulations, Trick,” Pete says, placing a warm hand on Patrick’s hip. “I’m so fucking proud of you. I wish I could just pull you close and tell the whole world how amazingly brilliant you are.”

“I think my dad would be kind of upset if you did.”

“Yeah,” Pete concedes with a small grin. “Probably not a good idea.”

“Did you hear my mom go on about colleges? I swear, she had me enrolled in at least ten different programs before Mrs Kayne had even finished her first glass of wine, and that woman is practically a sponge.”

“About that,” Pete says, and Patrick feels the hand on his hip tighten. “You know that I’d come with you, right? If you want to go out of state. Take on Northwestern, or Harvard or any other school that would be lucky to have you. I’ll be there.”

“Pete...”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. Just—” He slides his free hand into Pete’s hair, pulls him down a bit, just enough for a kiss. Pete tenses up against him, and Patrick can hear a little voice at the back of his mind go _whatthefuckareyoudoingstopstopstop,_ but right now, he doesn’t really care. There’s champagne bubbling in his blood, and he just got a _1490_ on his SAT’s, and Pete is with him, kissing him back now, and Patrick feels all the things that have been growing in his chest and stomach and all the rest of his body over the past five and a half months kind of solidify and spread until there’s nothing but thrumming, elated knowledge in every part of him.

“I love you.”

It’s incredible how effortlessly the words spill from his lips. It’s like breathing. As natural as opening his mouth for the first note of a song.

“You—?” Pete pulls back, looking down at him as though Patrick just hung the moon. And suddenly Patrick gets that too, because he’s looking at Pete, and there’s this huge thing inside him that just—yeah. Patrick knows that feeling. He’s known it all his life.

“I,” he repeats, pressing his lips to Pete’s neck, kissing his way up along the jaw “Love.” A steady lick right above the pulse point. “You,” Patrick finishes quietly, breathing the word into Pete’s ear. Pete makes some kind of strangled whimper at the back of his throat, and then his free arm is around Patrick’s neck, holding him close and kissing him, steady and sweet and with so much promise that Patrick can’t help but to melt against him.

“I love you too,” Pete whispers against his lips, taking a last, slow kiss before pulling back. “Jesus, Patrick, you’re the fucking love of my life.”

Patrick ducks out from under Pete’s arm and tips his champagne glass to Pete’s before linking their arms together. Yeah, it’s a cheesy move, and so incredibly lame, Patrick knows, but he kind of wants to do it anyway.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and they do, sipping champagne and letting some of it linger in their mouths, sharing the taste in a deep kiss.

Love.

It so totally lives up to the hype.

***

_DAY 42 – 10:05 PM_

Ryan doesn’t know how they do it, but somehow they manage to arrive at the cathedral just seconds behind Pete. There are police cars everywhere, red and blue lights flashing all around them.

“Pete, wait!”

Pete is half-way up the cathedral steps when he suddenly comes to an abrupt halt, looking around the parking lot frantically.

“There’s no ambulance,” he says as Ryan catches up with him. “Where the _fuck_ is the ambulance? Somebody get the hospital on the phone _right now!_ ” He starts climbing the steps again, two at the time, wrenching open the heavy door without waiting for an answer.

“Wentz!”

Spencer appears in front of Pete, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him into a dark alcove at the side of the church, nodding to Ryan and the others to keep going. Pete struggles against him, gets in a couple of solid punches before Spencer manages to twist Pete’s arm painfully behind his back and put his mouth to Pete’s ear. “Calm down—he’s alive.”

Pete deflates, sinking against Spencer like a heavy doll in cold water, choking on the too many words suddenly in his chest.

“He’s alive,” Spencer repeats, releasing his death grip on Pete’s arm and pulling him into a crushing hug, keeping him upright while Pete regains the feeling in his legs. “The ambulance took him away about ten minutes ago. He was still breathing when we found him.”

“Where—?” Pete manages, closing his eyes and trying to pull himself together. The familiar surroundings slowly come back into sharper focus. “What hospital?”

“Mountainview,” Spencer says. “No, wait.”

“What?” Pete almost hisses, not caring who overhears them now if it means that he can get to Patrick faster. Half of the LVPD night shift just saw him tear into the church like a demented, wounded animal. If the secret breaks tonight, it has probably already happened.

“Here,” Spencer says, pulling something small out of the pocket of his jeans. “I didn’t take it off. It was lying on his chest when we found him. I figured it would be best if it didn’t go into an evidence bag.”

Pete takes the ring numbly, hands shaking as he strokes the familiar surface and then the inscription inside.

_I want to scream ‘I love you’ from the top of my lungs._

He probably shouldn’t have added his full name to that.

“I’ll tell Jon to start working on a dance,” Spencer says with a small smile, eyes meeting Pete’s for a brief moment of mutual understanding before he disappears down the aisle to join the rest of his team.

Pete closes his hand and clutches the ring tightly, breathes deeply to force the hot, wet, burning fear back from where it’s pushing at the corner of his eyes.

His mind flashes back to Cassie Walker's crime scene, substituting blonde for reddish gold. Rage wells up inside him, a million times worse than any other time he's felt it, and he's grateful that he never got his gun back from where he checked it in at the prison reception, because he honestly doesn't know if he could keep himself from shooting anyone who might accidentally piss him off right now.

Jon Walker had better get in line. Pete is going to hunt the angel killer down—to the end of the world if need be—and when Pete finds him, Medieval torture will seem like a nice and painless way to spend the time.

Love is patient, after all.

***

**MAY 30**

Patrick's dad throws a Sunday brunch at their house right after Mass the week he promotes Pete to Head Detective. It's almost June, about two weeks after Patrick finally said goodbye to high school and just a week short of Pete's 29th birthday. Patrick figures the timing is more or less perfect.

As much as he respects Pete's all-or-not-exactly-nothing-but-not-even-close-to-enough philosophy, it's been seven months and eight days of trying to get Pete to realise that, yes, Patrick is fucking _in_ , and really, they should be relocating to Pete's bed now and just never leave again.

Sometimes, you need to know when you've waited long enough.

He walks up to where Pete's standing next to Patrick's father and a couple of his friends. One of them might be the local DA; Patrick vaguely recognises him from previous get-togethers such as this one.

“Hi,” he says, mostly to his father but making sure to make polite smiles at all of them. “Um, I'm going over to a friend's in a little while, and I just wanted to say congratulations.” He directs this last part at Pete, doing his best to keep his hand steady and casual as he reaches into his pocket.

“Here,” he says, holding out a small, flat box for Pete to take. “It's nothing much, and you can totally take it back to the store if it's not your style, but mom said that it's customary to give people something when they get promoted.”

Pete takes the box with a suitably surprised/pleased expression on his face and starts working on the generic, obviously-wrapped-by-a-bored-sales-girl-in-the-store paper and bow. Patrick chats with his dad in the meantime, telling him that _yes, remember I told you about it last week? We're going up to the small lake where we went with Father Francis that time, where the fishing was really good. Yes, just me and Jason and his older brother, you know, the one who's thinking of doing missionary work in India? Yes, mom helped me get everything together. Just until Wednesday, I need to be back for choir practice. Yes, the cell phone coverage is actually really good up there._ while he watches Pete unwrap the gift out of the corner of his eye.

“Patrick...”

It's a silver chain. Clean and simple, like the thing it's meant to match.

“As I said, it's mainly symbolic,” Patrick says. “But you could hang something from it if you wanted, like a cross maybe? Or something else that you like. Or just use it like it is.”

He chances one quick look directly at Pete, just to make sure that he gets it, and can't help the smile that spreads across his face when their eyes meet. Pete thanks him and shakes his hand, pressing his middle finger firmly into the heart of Patrick's palm.

_Press one for 'yes,' two for 'no.'_

Patrick forces himself to keep still. Kissing the life out of Pete in front of his father still registers as a 'bad thing to do,' even though both his knees and his brain kind of seem to have stopped working.

“So, I'm going to head off,” Patrick says. “I don't want to keep the other guys waiting. Nice meeting you all again. Bye, Dad, see you on Wednesday.”

He goes up to his room, takes his pre-packed bags of dirty clothes, puts them in the car with the tent and fishing equipment and hugs his mom goodbye. It takes him about twenty minutes to get to Pete's apartment, which is just as messy as usual. Patrick doesn't really care.

He's getting married.

He slides the silver ring off his finger, balances it on the back of his hand. He knows it will be years before they can actually make it public. Years of sneaking around and careful planning to ease the transition for everyone around them well enough so that Patrick's parents don't completely flip and Pete doesn't end up in prison or out of a job.

Right now, Patrick doesn't care how long it takes. He brings the ring closer to his face, turns his hand so that the light from the window hits it at the right angle to show off the finely curved inscription that runs across the outer surface.

_True Love Waits_

Patrick smiles and pulls off his shirt.


	8. Epilogue

_DAY 47 – 9:15 AM_

“On your stomach. Stretch out your arms.”

Pete starts to tremble when Patrick fastens the cuffs around his wrists, metal closing tightly over bare skin. It will bruise, and Patrick knows that’s a risk he’s taking, but Pete needs him to, so the reasonable little voice inside his head can just go fuck itself.

_Lesson number two: never leave marks, no matter how much you want to._

Patrick slides his hands roughly over Pete’s naked back, feeling the tension in the muscles and knowing that they’re mirrored by his own body. He needs this too. Maybe just as much, maybe even more. Patrick needs to know that he’s still real, that this isn’t just some kind of twisted dream in the afterlife, so he reaches over to the other side of the bed, grabs his own pillow and inserts it under Pete’s head, folding it just right.

“I’m still here,” he murmurs into Pete’s ear, punctuating his words by sinking his teeth into the earlobe and getting a broken moan in reply. “And I’m going to keep fucking you until we both get that. Now, breathe.”

Pete tilts his face half-way into the pillow and draws a shaking breath. Patrick can make out the faint smell of his own skin/shampoo/the soap he uses from where he’s slowly and deliberately working his way down Pete’s neck with lips and teeth, and he knows how much stronger the sensation is when you’re surrounded, when there’s nothing but soft cotton and the smell of the person pushing you down and filling you up attacking your senses from every direction. He slides a loving hand into Pete’s hair, takes a steady grip and presses down. Five seconds. Ten. Just enough to make sure that the imprint of his mouth on the soft skin right behind Pete’s ear won’t be fading anytime soon.

He works his way down Pete’s spine slowly, mapping every contour with his tongue and marking it roughly. Pete shudders every time Patrick’s teeth cut into his skin, and Patrick moans, because it feels so fucking good to finally do this, just take everything and make Pete _his_. The urge to mark is unrefined and primitive, but it feels fucking fantastic, and for every red circle blooming on Pete’s skin, a little bit of tension goes out of both their backs.

“Keep your face out of the pillow. I want to hear it when you beg.”

A strangled moan travels up Pete’s throat, and it’s beautiful. Everything about Pete is so fucking beautiful. Patrick lowers himself further on the bed, spreads Pete’s legs wide to give himself more room. He starts with the thighs, works his way higher. The first real tug on the handcuffs comes when the tip of his tongue trails the path back from Pete’s balls, the first helpless groan when he lets his hands splay over Pete’s ass.

“Jesus, Trick, you… oh holy _fuck._ ”

There’s no desire to be sweet or gentle now. They both know what they are to each other. This is about the burn, about the throb and the ache of feeling every cell alive and wanting. Patrick adds a finger on either side of his tongue, moving them faster when Pete starts to beg. Pete’s hips are straining backwards for more contact—metal grinding loudly against the wooden headboard—and Patrick pushes deeper, loses himself in the heat and taste of Pete’s skin until he can’t take it anymore.

“Head down. Follow my voice.”

He keeps careful count as he slicks up and pushes himself inside. Starts off with ten seconds, then fifteen. He presses Pete against the mattress and lets his arms slide to the cuffed wrists, gripping tightly right below the metal before latching on to the headboard for more leverage. Pete is panting beneath him, gasping for oxygen whenever he’s allowed, nearly completely wordless now that all energy goes into battling the blackness Patrick knows is right there at the edge of his mind. Patrick can feel it too, feels it crawling up his spine, a red haze of pleasure driving his hips faster, harder—a relentless rhythm of skin on skin.

“God, Patrick, _please_ …”

Patrick tears one hand away from the wooden bar, fists it in Pete’s hair and pushes down hard. He moves faster, knows that he only has twenty-five seconds or so—thirty if they push it. He feels Pete’s body start to jerk, instinct kicking in when air reserves run dry. Patrick presses his eyes shut, bites his lip to keep focused, forces himself to hold back another three seconds. Five. Eight…

The change is so small. Patrick is amazed by the subtlety of it every time they do this. This time, he feels it under the skin of his thumb—the muscle to the side of Pete’s neck releasing its tension, yielding under his touch. He lets go of Pete’s hair and yanks the pillow away, buries his own face against Pete’s neck as he wedges his hand in beneath them to close around Pete’s cock and they both start to shake. There is hot wetness shooting out over his hand, over the sheets, muscles clenching around him so tightly that he doesn’t know what he’s even doing anymore. He thinks he hears someone cry out as everything goes a blinding white inside him, but he can’t be sure, and he doesn’t care, because Pete is still coming, against him and around him and all over his hand, and Patrick lets go of the headboard, laces his fingers desperately with Pete’s, and lets himself fall.

Somewhere after the third time, when the day is almost over and the light filtering in through the blinds has turned a soft, golden grey, Patrick counts the marks he’s left on Pete’s skin. After he’s done, Pete does the same. The kisses are different somehow after this—a new level of certitude enclosed in the promises they leave against bruised and broken tissue.

“I want a new ring,” Patrick says quietly, pressing another kiss to the corner of Pete’s mouth in the semi-darkness. “With a date this time. Even if we have to add four years in order not to freak everyone out.”

“Yes.” Pete breathes the word against his lips, brushing a strand of hair out of Patrick’s face and letting his hand continue downwards in soft caresses. “I want one too.”

“Good,” Patrick says, moving in for another kiss before pulling away. He leans over Pete and opens the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out a silver chain with an identical ring to the one he's wearing hanging from it. He slides the white gold band off his forth finger and puts it on the chain with the silver one, kissing Pete deeply as he fastens the chain around his neck.

“Third time's the charm, huh?” Pete says, fingers closing over Patrick's as they both play with the rings on his chest.

“Better be,” Patrick smiles. “I'd hate to give my dad a heart attack just to divorce your ass a month or so later.”

“You don't believe in divorce.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “I could change my mind if you pissed me off enough.”

“Never, Trick,” Pete says, a huge grin spreading on his face. “I'll tattoo my name on your ass—in a _heart_ —if you even start thinking about leaving me. And then you'd never get laid again, so you might as well stay.”

Patrick laughs and rolls them over, grabbing Pete's wrists and pinning them above his head before leaning in to rest his mouth just a fraction of an inch out of reach. “Well, if you put it that way...”

 THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most names of locations in Las Vegas in this fic are actually real. As unlikely as it sounds, there is actually a Catholic Cathedral on 302 Cathedral Way called the Guardian Angel. (It doesn't look anything like the cathedral described in the story though. I've more or less used St Patrick's in New York as the visual inspiration, because yes, obvious choice. :-))
> 
> There's a companion vid to this story. Due to zone problems and YouTube being sneaky, it's locked for some countries. If you can't play the embedded vid below, you can open it directly in your meda player [by clicking here.](http://brus.homeip.net/joomla/media/peterick_bbb.wmv) (Or right-click and choose “save target as” to download.)


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